Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
I rest my forehead against the cool wood of the door. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’ll break down this door, Evie. If you want to take that as a threat, go ahead.”
The thing is, I believe him. I know Lucius will do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. That’s part of the bad-boy appeal that had me swooning over him when I was young and dumb. A lifetime ago. Before I realized what he really is.
“I hate to do this, but then again, no I don’t.” His voice fades a little, and I imagine him backing away from the door and squaring up.
“You love violence. I know.” I flip the deadbolts, moving slowly and missing one. Once I get them all, I pull open the door, the bottom scraping the glass along with it as it swings.
He looks me up and down, then focuses on my foot. “You really are a lightweight.”
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I hate the pleading tone of my voice, the desperation that winds its way through my words.
“Not my style.” His light blue eyes should belong to an angel or a beautiful woman, but instead god bestowed them on Lucius. Why? To tempt me, I suppose. That’s how the story goes, anyway.
“What are you mumbling about god?” He steps inside, sweeps me into his arms, and crunches the glass beneath his shoes. The door swings shut with a thud as he carries me into the living room. “Where’s your room?”
I glance toward it. “I’m not telling you.”
“You don’t have to.” He carries me close to his chest. Like he knows me. Like I’m important to him. When he puts me down on the edge of my tub, then kneels and pulls my foot up for inspection, I can almost convince myself that he’s a dark-haired lover, someone who’s here to take care of me, ravish me, worship me, save me. But then he looks up, and I remember that his good looks hide the corruption underneath.
“I’m fine. Please leave.”
“You’re not.” He looks around. “Do you have any first aid stuff?”
“No.”
His brows draw together. “Nothing? Not even alcohol?”
“Under the sink.” I jerk my chin toward the vanity.
“I suppose that’ll have to do.” He stands and walks over to it, rolling his sleeves up as he goes. “Is your foot the only part of you that’s hurt?”
How to answer that question. I can’t. Instead, I giggle, and I know I sound insane. But I can’t stop. Not when I see Lucius coming toward me with alcohol. My savior, ready to doctor my wound and comfort me as I spiral down, down, down—so far down that I’ll drown in those blue eyes of his.
“You are talking nonsense.” He peers closely at the sole of my foot, then says, “There’s glass here. I’m going to pull it out on the count of three. One, two—”
I scream.
He pours alcohol on the cut and then presses a towel to it.
Tears roll down my cheeks. “Y-you said three.”
“I did,” he agrees.
The alcohol burns and sends pain radiating up my leg. Lucius keeps the towel pressed tightly to the cut, his other hand gripping my calf.
I realize my robe is falling open. He does too, because his gaze climbs up my calf, my thigh, and then settles on my panties. It lights me on fire. It shouldn’t. But shoulds and shouldn’ts don’t matter anymore, not when my greatest enemy is in my home, doctoring my wounds, and making me feel things I’ll regret.
“Regrets are pointless.” He shakes his head.
Why do I keep saying things out loud? Jesus, get your shit together, Evie.
He pulls the towel away a little. “It’s clotting. A relatively clean cut. You can avoid stitches as long as you don’t do any tap-dancing anytime soon.” Reaching to his neck, he loosens his tie and pulls it free. He places it on my foot, then starts wrapping it around, the deep purple fleur-de-lis pattern like a jewel against my skin.
“That looks expensive.”
“It is.” He tightens it and ties it off. When he’s done, he inspects his work. “Teddy would be proud.”
“The only good Vinemont. But still bad, of course.” I wipe at my bleary eyes. “You’re all bad.”
“Fair enough.” He stands and lifts me again with irritating ease. “You need to sleep it off.”
“You’re not sleeping here.”
“Who said I was?” His goddamn smirk makes an appearance as he lays me on my bed. “Is this—” He pulls my gun from beneath my pillow and checks the chamber. “You keep a loaded gun under your pillow?”
I shrug.
He shrugs, too. “I’m not judging. Just don’t accidentally shoot yourself.” He replaces it, then pulls my blanket over me.
“I can’t sleep with you here.”
“Okay.” He turns and walks out of my room.
Even in my drunken haze, I sit up and try to see where he’s gone. Did he leave like I said? Ah, shit, the bastard is back, and now he’s carrying a water.