Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
I even catch the small scar near her hairline and the flecks of forest green in her wide eyes.
She slams both her small hands on my chest, and I suppress a goddamn growl.
Bloody fucking hell.
This woman exists in my vicinity, and I’m tempted to shred every ounce of control that flows in my veins.
“Don’t touch me.” Her low yet firm voice fills the car.
“Is that a threat?”
“A warning.”
“And yet you’re the one who has her hands on me. Can’t resist me, huh?”
“You wish, prick.” Her words are merely a whisper as she pushes me away.
Or attempts to, anyway.
If I decide this is the place where I’ll exist for the rest of my life, this is exactly where I will be and there’s nothing she can do to alter the decision.
That uncharacteristically reckless part of me that needs to be burned at the stake finds the idea tempting.
Dangerously so.
I pull the seat belt over her chest, fighting the urge to ogle how the dress hugs her breasts and curves.
A fucking dress she paraded in front of a bunch of fuckers who have no business seeing her like this.
I wonder if Henderson is Superman enough to blow up the entire club and everyone in it, then somehow pin it on aliens.
I snap the seat belt into place and retreat into my seat, a taste of something sour clinging to the back of my throat.
A sigh of relief leaves Ava, but as I pull away from the club, she crosses her arms—and legs for good measure. “Why did you follow me?”
“You hit my car and nearly crashed it, spent a small fortune on people you don’t even know, and were attempting to recreate your miserable alcoholic days. Need I say more?”
“Told you I’m high maintenance. You said you like it.”
“There’s a difference between being high maintenance and a spoiled brat who’s an embarrassment.”
I can see her eyes flashing in my peripheral vision, like two orbs of burning lava. “No one forced you to marry me. If you dislike my behavior, give me a divorce.”
That’s the second time she’s demanded that in the span of a week, and I swear to fuck, if she says it again, I might lock her the hell up.
“So you can pick up the scraps of your useless, empty life, participate in blow parties, and fill your body with enough alcohol to give you liver failure?”
“What I do with my life is none of your concern.”
“It is now. Get used to it.”
“I’m warning you, Eli. You can’t control me. The more you force me, the harder I’ll rebel.”
“The harder you rebel, the more insufferable I become.”
“You’re always insufferable.”
Can’t argue with that.
I steal a glance at her to find her digging holes in my face with eyes that were made to only see exotic things—namely me. “I’ll take the dreadful, outrageous behavior up a notch, then. Whether or not you’ll be able to endure it is another story.”
“You can’t do anything to me.”
“Do you dare test that theory?”
I catch a glimpse of her lips pursing before she releases a long breath, clamps that beautiful mouth shut, and stares out the window.
Silence has always been a quality of mine, a strong preference, so to speak. It’s a skill when used properly and an advantage to wield in dire times.
Ava’s silence, however, has always been an irksome, absolutely maddening experience. It’s like reaching an oasis in the middle of the desert, only to find out it’s a mirage.
“What do you want, Eli?” Her soft voice fills the car as she continues staring out the window.
“Some peace and quiet would be fantastic.”
“From me. What do you want from me?”
“Behaving properly is a satisfactory start.”
She swings her head in my direction and bats her long, curled, and fucking glittery lashes at me. “And how am I supposed to do that, exactly? Turn into your puppet? Worship at your feet?”
“Distancing yourself from the wrong crowd and refraining from throwing tantrums is enough.”
“Aw. But those are my favorite pastimes. You know, since, and I quote, I’m lazy, shallow, and would rather splurge a fortune than use my airhead brain.”
I let a smirk tilt my lips. “And who are you quoting exactly?”
“You, prick. And here I thought I was the one with the memory loss.”
“In sickness and in health, Mrs. King.”
“I hate you.”
“By all means.”
“If I wasn’t struggling and didn’t feel guilty about implicating my parents, I’d never stay with you.”
“Lucky me.”
“If I had a redo, I’d marry any man but you.”
“Good thing you’ll never get a redo.” I pause and count to ten, a method I need to use so I don’t accidentally bash her head in. Once I’m done, I look—or probably glare—at her.
She’s fully facing me now, and if eyes could kill, I would’ve been murdered in cold blood, cut to pieces, and thrown into the Thames by now.