Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Like personal things. This house feels so generic and cold. Is this actually your house?” She squints at me accusingly, as if I’d just broken into someone’s home.
“I have no need for personal things. It’s only a place to sleep,” I say matter-of-factly.
She stares at me in disbelief.
“Do you have a charging station or something?” she asks incredulously. I don’t understand, so I ignore her, but she adds, “Since you’re clearly a robot or something.”
“Don’t make me add another clause to the contract that says you can’t call me a robot.”
She still hasn’t come any closer to me. I point at the island barstool and wait for her to come willingly. She stares at me but eventually gives in and sits down awkwardly.
“Stay still, and do not touch me,” I warn her, stepping up closer.
“Why would I touch— Motherfucker!” she screams as I clean the area with disinfectant. She lays her hands on my chest, and her nails start digging in. My jaw clenches as hard as hers, conscious of her pressing against me.
Filth. Beneath me. Forbidden. Infectious.
“I told you not to touch me,” I growl as I try to pull away, but she clings to me, nails sunk deep. I want to clean myself. The sensation comes over me every time someone touches me. It’s too much. A reminder of the reason I first put gloves on at six and have avoided physical contact since.
She doesn’t pull away as I grab the glue and apply it to the cut, then I pinch the skin together and hold it closed while I look down at her hands, trying to push down the screaming thoughts in my head.
I have blood and glue on my gloves, but I can’t seem to look away from her hands resting on my chest. I go to pull away again, to wrench myself from her, but then I realize she’s going a shade too pale.
“I’m a little tired.” Her eyes start to close, and before either of us says anything else, she falls straight into my arms.
My entire body locks up as her full body weight presses against me. She’s not heavy, the furthest thing from it, but I try to blink away all the screaming words that churn in my head.
Filth. Touching. Human.
They eat at me alive.
Fucking hell.
I told her not to touch me. I should have let her fall.
CHAPTER 11
Lena
My head is hurting, and people are talking around me.
“Welcome back,” an unfamiliar man says.
I’m lying on the cold floor. I notice Alek right away as he points for the man to leave. The older man looks down at me, and I attempt to sit up.
“Stay fucking still; you may have a concussion,” Alek grumbles as the old man takes his leave.
“Who was that?”
“The doctor,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
“Oh. Why was there a doctor here?”
“Well, I figured you didn’t want to go to the hospital and get hit with a bill. So I called him over.”
“That’s awfully nice…” I stop myself and look up at him. More likely, he doesn’t want questions about his shady business.
“Wait, why am I on the floor?”
“You fainted, and I didn’t want to touch you.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” I say sarcastically.
I try to sit up again when he walks off.
“Do not faint again. I need rest and can’t get it if you won’t leave.” He reaches for a single glass on his counter and fills it with water, then hands it to me. It’s then I realize he still hasn’t put a shirt on. His toned abs are hard not to look at, and he has ink snaking up one arm.
“It’s still really weird you own this house; it feels like a display home,” I tell him, glancing around at the almost empty rooms and trying to avoid his bare chest.
“You just say the first thing that comes to your mind, don’t you?” he asks, not at all impressed.
“It comes naturally. In the way that you snap your fingers and expect people to jump for your attention and at your next command because you have the money,” I reply.
“Do you hold bias against those who have money? If I pay for a service, I expect it to be fulfilled, no questions asked,” he states. “I came from nothing, and built up everything I have.” He pulls the glass from my hand, careful not to touch my fingers as he does so. He puts it in the sink and looks down at me. “Stand. Slowly.”
“I don’t come from money. My parents are middle class. Same house, same cars, same jobs all my life. They worked hard and never really went any further than where they started,” I tell him, and brace myself as I push myself up. “So I suppose I just don’t like you, personally, because of your shitty attitude. Money aside.” I get a little dizzy, but I manage to stand.