Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Please, miss, let’s get you home,” the bodyguard encourages.
What. The actual. Fuck?
CHAPTER 23
Rya
When I get home, I fight with the chain’s little clasp around my ankle as if the thing is scorching my skin. My long nails do nothing to help pry it off. When I finally get the damn thing loose, I throw it on top of the black file on my table and head straight for the shower. The bodyguard stands outside my door, and I don’t care to invite him in. I still stand by the opinion that I don’t need a bodyguard, but what have I gotten myself into?
I struggle with the zipper at the back of my dress, growing more frustrated and impatient. “Fuck!” I yell into the empty room until I can finally unzip the dress. I throw it on the bed alongside my panties and bra. “I have to stop wearing color,” I huff out as if that’s why all this is happening.
I turn the shower to scorching, then dip under it, relieved by its burn and punishment. I press my hands to the shower wall as I bow my head, the water trailing down my back.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Crue is bad. Forbidden.
He is chaos. Power.
And the devil himself reincarnated.
But most importantly, he is everything I had purposefully run away from. He was the reason why I’d left my old life.
And here I am toying with the notion because of what…
Good sex?
A thrill?
A challenge?
I know none of those things are accurate.
What this is between Crue and me goes beyond the boundaries of those things. Worse than that, it’s something I can’t put into words because I’m not going to fall for this game.
I cannot be with Crue.
And I sure as hell will not under any circumstances marry him.
I sigh and twist under the water, my hands close to my chest. The entire bathroom has filled with steam, and part of me wishes I could drown in it.
My thoughts drift back to earlier tonight.
The way Crue feels under my touch.
The way he makes me feel.
The way he fills me.
A low throb thrums through me as one hand drifts down to the spot that demands his touch once more. I curse and retract my wandering hand.
Fuck. Am I out of my goddamn mind?
I turn the faucet and blast jarring cold water all over my body, snapping me to attention. It’s exactly what I need.
No, I simply used Crue to get what I wanted, I lie to myself. Although, some of that is partly true.
I wanted proof of those videos. And now I have it. Case closed.
I turn the shower faucet off and twist my white, fluffy towel around me. When I step out of the bathroom, I look at the dress and pick it up, walk straight over to the trash, and throw it in with determination. Definitely only wearing black from now on.
My phone lights up on the coffee table.
Three missed calls from Angel.
Five text messages.
Angel: Dominic just left with Crue. What the fuck happened?
Angel: Are you okay?
Angel: Crue told me you’re home and have a bodyguard, but I want to make sure.
Angel: Rya, call me back I’m stressing out here!
Angel: Rya, I’m pregnant, and I swear to God if I have to give birth to this baby early, I’m demoting you from godmother.
I pause on that text. She hasn’t officially asked me to be the godmother, but the thought brings an odd swirl in my gut—something like responsibly rolls through me.
Oh my God, Rya, get your shit together. You are not having the child yourself, I think to myself. But damn did tonight do a number on me.
I finally reply to Angel.
Me: I’m fine. Just need some time to myself tonight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
A second later, her response comes in.
Angel: Promise?
I put the phone down and pour myself a glass of red because Lord knows I need it after tonight. It’s not the shocking part of having a man killed point-blank in front of me—I’d seen that before—but it’s because I keep losing myself under Crue’s damn spell. I can’t seem to step away from him when I should be bolting for the hills. I came here for a normal life, well, as much as I could, and threw myself into work.
I rub the glass against my bottom lip as I look at the black folder. I’ve looked at my fair share of damning evidence, but it feels different being on the other side of it. Invasive and infuriating.
I take another sip, put the glass down, collect the file, and sit back on my couch to look through the photographs. Me in the shower. Me doing my hair. Me sitting on the toilet. Eww! What the actual fuck?
Was he going to use this against me, or did he just have some weird fucking kinks? And how long has Crue known about this? Is that why he finally made a move? No, it couldn’t be. Could it?