Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
My mother left my father about six years after I was born. She told him that she wasn’t happy, and he let her go. He did stay in touch with me, but he worked all the time, meaning we spoke or met sporadically. My dad was cold around me. However, he did make sure I was taken care of. I’m pretty sure if he knew how my mother treated me, he would have put a stop to it. I also think that’s why he took her back, even though she had been living with Sam’s father since we left.
Sam’s father was a Russian named Abram Garin. I can’t say I liked him at all. Then again, he didn’t allow me to find anything to like about him. My mother liked his money. My father might have been cold, but Abram was cold and cruel. He didn’t bother me. I wasn’t worth his time—that made me mostly invisible in the Garin home. I’d seen his cruelty when it came to Sam and the house staff, though. I may have only been six—almost seven—when we moved in, but that was more than old enough to see the evil that lived inside of the man. I was glad when my mother left to return to my father. She only did it because Maxwell pulled strings to get him promoted so he made more money. My mother is nothing if not predictable.
“Hey, runt,” Sam cracks while giving me a lopsided smile. I don’t think, I just run into his arms. He wraps them around me and pulls me up. “That’s my girl,” he says close to my ear making me smile.
When he puts me down, I’m smiling sincerely, so happy that I can barely stand it. I’ve missed his presence in my life. That was just one more thing my mother took from me. Sure, Sam tried to keep contact, but between my mother and his father, it became impossible. He came in for my fifteenth birthday, but both my parents banded together to make him leave. I don’t know what they said to him, but it had to be bad, because Sam never tried to see me again.
Sure, we exchange emails from time to time, but that’s it. Sam is easygoing and completely different from his father—at least when he’s not around the man. He takes after his mother. He has muddy brown hair, brown eyes and this cleft in his chin that looks super sexy on him. He did take his height after his father. He’s like six-three and broad-shouldered like a linebacker. Girls used to throw themselves at him. Heck, I might have too, but to me he’s always been my brother.
His mother was American. It was said that Sam’s dad loved her very much. To be honest, I never saw anything in the man that showed he knew what love was. Sam’s mom died during labor, having Sam. This is something that his father never lets him forget either. I’m not sure how someone could blame their child for the death of its own mother just because it happened in childbirth. Then again, I’m of the opinion that the man is a monster.
I was lost in my thoughts, but I realize at once that I screwed up. My hand goes to the side of my face, but it’s too late. Sam has seen my scar. I never mentioned my attack to him. There was nothing he could do. I knew he was living in Russia with his Mikhail. I didn’t tell him, mostly because I didn’t want Sam to look at me… like he is looking at me right now.
He grabs my hand and brushes his thumb along the jagged scar. I close my eyes, refusing to cry.
“What the actual fuck!” he growls, rage barely controlled in his deep voice.
“Sam,” I whisper.
“What happened to you, Angie?”
“I was attacked in Phoenix,” I whisper, the words ugly on my tongue. For a moment, I can’t breathe. “It happened when I was in college, Sam. I’m fine, I promise.”
I’m anything but fine.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Angie?”
“Because I knew you’d come find me, and I didn’t want you to see me and do…” I catch my breath and then wave my hand around. “I didn’t want you to do this.”
“Come see you?” Sam asks, sounding hurt.
I shake my head no. “Look at me with pity. Everyone does that and I hate it.”
“It’s not pity you see, little one. It’s anger.”
“I’d rather not see that either,” I confess.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“Will you stop looking at me like I’m damaged goods?”
“That’s not how I’m looking at you,” he grumbles.
I pull away from him and make my way to the door, letting him follow me inside. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Angie—”
“What about food? Are you hungry? I made a breakfast casserole this morning and it hasn’t been touched,” I add, frowning because Victor didn’t eat. I hope he at least found something on the way to the airfield. I shouldn’t worry about him, but I do. I don’t know if they serve meals on the private jet or not. I imagine they would, but who knows.