Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
A look of something like surprise flickers across his face. “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”
My cheeks heat. Is this a saying the fellowship made up? Will I look like an outsider that easily?
“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”
“Shame on me,” he finishes. “Right.”
Another perplexed look while he runs his finger across his chin again. For one moment, I’m actually glad my predominant feeling right now is fear, because if it wasn’t…I’m not sure I’m comfortable with what might take its place.
“And three times,” I say in a rush of words, because it seems like it’s the only thing that saves me right now and words, I can do. “I mean that would be the utmost display of foolishness, would it not? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.”
A long, hard blink. “Shakespeare had a few things right, didn’t he?”
He shakes himself, as if waking from a dream or getting his wits about him, which surprises me because he doesn’t seem like a man that’s easily ruffled. Have I ruffled him? And if I have, why does that give me a strange sense of power?
For long moments he doesn’t speak, but only rakes his eyes over my body, unashamed and unencumbered. I look down at myself, my cheeks flaming when I see my worn, rumpled dress, my bare feet, the tops dusty from all the walking I did, my bedraggled hair. I watch his brows draw together and his eyes flash with anger.
“I’m not usually this… messy,” I whisper, embarrassed by my appearance. “I came on a bus and I left yesterday morning and I—”
I freeze when he reaches for my shoulder. The barest touch of his finger against my skin makes me shiver from nerves. He’s so close. Men aren’t allowed to touch women they’re not married to, and I don’t even know this man’s name.
“Who did this to you?”
I look down. One of the buttons on my shoulder’s come undone, baring my bruised skin. I quickly lift the flap of fabric back up to cover my skin. He can’t see me like this. No one can.
I shake my head. “Why so many questions?” I say in a whisper, turning away from him. The more he asks me, the more tempted I am to lie, and I can’t tell a lie.
“I found a real life Goldilocks sleeping in one of my beds, who won’t even tell me her name, much less why she’s here.” He steps a bit closer to me. I can see flecks of gold in his eyes. He smells like fire and spice.
Oh.
Oh, no.
He’s the owner. Of course he is. Who else would he be?
“I’m so sorry,” I say, gathering up my little bag and slipping my shoes on. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I was only…tired,” I say with a sigh. “And I didn’t know where I could go that was safe.”
He growls, deep and low in his chest. I step back and fall onto the bed. “You’re definitely not safe here.”
And yet, he hasn’t hurt me or threatened me.
Yet.
“You’re afraid,” he mutters.
I nod.
“Oh. So she can tell the truth.”
I swallow hard before I answer. “It’s the only thing I tell.”
“Is it? Then tell me who put these bruises on you.”
I have to tell him. A part of me is afraid to, while another part of me wants to tell someone. He’s angry and fierce but strong. So strong.
But I don’t trust men, I remind myself.
“Seth did.”
“Who’s Seth?”
I swallow hard and keep his gaze while I give him the truth that’s hard to state aloud. “My husband.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Sergio
At first, I wondered if Mario slipped something into my drink last night. He’s not above a little aiding and abetting me when he thinks I’m too high-strung. Because when I first saw this woman, I swore there really was a Goldilocks in my bed.
Gino told me he saw someone on the security footage, and when I saw her—a slender little figure with long, long blonde hair all the way to her waist, tucked into one of our beds like a sleeping child—I had to see for myself. Why was a child sleeping in one of our beds?
But this woman is no child. She’s small and slight and has an air of innocence about her, no doubt. But when I get a closer look at her, I can tell. She is all woman.
Younger than me. Way, way younger. Maybe even illegally younger than me. She looks like a penniless pauper come in from an Amish homestead, dressed in clothes little more than rags, her feet dirty from a long walk. I went through her bag before she woke and found no money and a case for her glasses. Not even a change of clothes or some coins.
She didn’t stir when I came into the room.