Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
A silenced shot pierces my ear and the knife flies from my hand. My wrist jerks and I let it rest at my side as drops of blood fall on the beige carpet.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Motherfucker shot the handle of the knife, and while the bullet didn’t hit me, it grazed me.
Pain throbs on the side of my hand, and I briefly close my eyes, trying not to get consumed with the pain. If I do, I’ll have this urge to inflict it ten times worse.
“Look what you’ve done.” Yulian’s imposter's deep voice rings out like a calm mock. “That wasn’t necessary, now, was it?”
When I open my eyes, he’s close.
Closer than anyone should get to my person after attacking me. Because I’m staring at his pulse point, and I want to bite and rip the flesh out like a rabid dog.
My jaw clenches and I shove the demons back where they came from and stare at him.
Not at his chest or the peculiar snake tattoo, but at the mask with golden serpents that should only be Yulian’s.
Was this a trap?
“Now, how about we pick up where we left off?” His breath, a mixture of whiskey and mint, penetrates my senses through my mask’s holes. It takes all my control not to slam my head into his so he’ll back the fuck off.
The silencer attached to his gun lifts my mask and lingers at my mouth, the cold metal brushing against my warm skin for a beat too long. It presses into my lips, the chill sinking into my flesh, but it fails to trigger any emotions.
I don’t possess the notion of fear. That switch just doesn’t exist in my brain. Not even when being held at gunpoint.
Anger, however? Yeah, that one I have in spades, and it’s mounting the more this motherfucker holds a gun to my face.
I remain still, though, breathing as steadily as possible.
Any sudden movement could lead to my death, and due to the silencer, no one at this party would be the wiser. This fucking waste of space proved that he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, and I don’t want to try my luck.
The silencer leaves my lips and he flips off my mask, letting it clatter on the floor.
Here we go again.
My least favorite shit.
Unmasking.
Showing my beautifully proportionate face. Shiny blond hair and ‘enchanting green eyes,’ as many describe them—though they look brown right now.
I’ve often been called the personification of a Prince Charming with my classically handsome face, dimpled smile, and welcoming appearance.
They’re all weapons in my arsenal.
The man pauses as he watches me. They all do. Men and women alike. I’m just that irresistible.
This one in particular doesn’t look like he wants to fuck me, though. His gray eyes, the color of rainstorms and hurricanes, remain impassive as he flips my face back and forth with the gun.
As if he’s looking for something. What, I don’t know, and I’m not interested to find out.
Because I don’t like those eyes.
Call it hate at first sight.
Why?
They lack color, and it’s not only because of the cloudy gray. They truly seem dead, and he’s not—dead, I mean. He should have some respect for the dead and stop those eyes from being so empty. That way, I can fantasize about turning them lifeless.
His gun lifts my chin and I struggle to continue staring at him and not the ceiling. “Such a pretty face for a grotesque personality.”
Grotesque.
Did this motherfucking piece of shit call me grotesque?
Me? The best-looking person I know?
Maybe I need to rip his pulse the fuck off, after all.
“It looks like you despise my wording.” A smile slips into his tone and I find something else I hate.
The deep rumble in his voice. The dispassionate, neutral, and absolutely monotonous way he speaks, as if he can’t be bothered to inject any emotions into it.
It rings again as his breath skims my mouth. “But I wouldn’t have used it if it weren’t true.”
I stare at him like he’s a robot—and maybe he is.
“Allow me to elaborate. You came here with a vile plan up your sleeve. It started with drugging Yulian’s drink and patiently waiting for him to break away from the others. I waited to see what you intended to do with him, but you stopped midway. So the suspense is killing me.”
I start to lift my thumb to my mouth, then allow my hand to remain down.
He’s been watching me.
While I was focused on Yulian, this fucking asshole was watching me.
The audacity to stalk the stalker.
The damn fucking nerve.
“Are you one of his guards?” I speak for the first time tonight. “You don’t sound Russian.”
Most of Yulian’s guards, like ours, are supplied by the Russian mafia and usually have a very thick accent.
He doesn’t.
If anything, he’s more refined and has a slow, precise way of speaking. He also sounds and seems older than me, so he could be a retired military member turned security guard. Though his speech is a bit too sophisticated for someone with a stereotypical military background.