Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“It could have happened with the bike. The bike would have been hard.”
“Right. Yes, that’s it, then. I’ll be sure to tell it that way next time. If only to see people’s expressions when I do.”
We both stand there silently after, with nothing to say. Granny’s right. I really could use some charm. Or at least the ability to talk to a woman without getting all strange and awkward and silent on them.
“My brothers,” I blurt, scaring Azalea such that she jumps a little. “They’re coming tomorrow morning. Flying in tonight. You wanted proof, so my granny is going to give it to you. Don’t worry. They’re mostly harmless—annoying but harmless. They’re a tad crazy and more than a bit rough around the edges, but as a whole, they’re good shit.”
“Oh. Uh…” Azalea reaches up and clasps a wet strand of hair.
Right now, it’s not the burnished gold it was before. It’s dark and frizzy up top. Without makeup, she looks younger. Or maybe it’s because of my clothes that she’s swimming in. Whatever it is, she looks more vulnerable, softer, and smaller, and it pricks something inside me, pressing on protective instincts I wasn’t aware I possessed.
“I’m not really hungry,” she goes on. “I’m just exhausted. If I could just go to bed, that would be…that would be great.”
“Right. Sure.” I shake myself, getting rid of the red stain I hope isn’t creeping up my neck. It’s been a damn long time since I was this uncomfortable in my own skin. Actually, I can’t remember a single time I was ever this uncomfortable. It feels like someone opened me up and stuffed me full of red hot coals and fire ants, and I have no idea what to call that sensation. It bothers the hell out of me as I point down the hall like a real gentleman. Not. “Second door on the right. Granny is taking the room next to you, so don’t worry about anything. Plus, there’s a lock.”
“Okay, yeah. Good.”
“Alright then. I…I just want you to know that I really am sorry.” Quit apologizing, imbecile. It’s not like it’s going to change anything.
Azalea blinks at me with her long lashes, which are still clumped together from being wet. She doesn’t say anything, and I’m the one who beats a fast retreat downstairs. I need to get away before I say anything else to embarrass myself.
Charm. Charm, my ass. This is where charm gets a person. I’m not ruthless, but if I was, I’m sure it would be less humiliating. The happy medium isn’t working for me, either.
God, I can’t wait to get this marriage done and over with. Whoever thought that promising me to someone as a baby was a great idea couldn’t have been more wrong. Right, that would be my drug lord of a father who never had a kind thought for me, let alone a word or gesture of affection. It makes total sense now that he would never have taken my thoughts and feelings into consideration. Getting this money means we can use it for good. We can use it to stop the endless cycle that I would have been a part of. If we can spare anyone else the pain of what I went through, or even half of it, then it’s worth it.
Surely I can endure a little humiliation. If Granny wants me to be Mr. Prince Charming, Mr. Romance, Mr. Love A Dub Something Or Other, then I can suck it up and handle it for a few days. I just need to keep reminding myself that it’s worth it.
It’s so damn worth it.
CHAPTER 6
Azalea
Well, shit sticks and sticks of shit, shit shizzle and shizzle shits.
I might as well do a front flip on a motorbike over a mountain of poo. It would be easier than trying to figure out how to escape from here—here being this room on the second floor of the house, which happens to be very freaking tall.
I’m not ready to admit defeat, so after a few seconds of looking through the window, I try the latch. It opens without issue. It’s an ancient thing like I’ve gathered the house must be, and it opens easily enough. It’s a big window. Big enough for me to lean out of, which I do. I lean far. Far enough that I can see that the roofline below, which must be the living room or the kitchen area, doesn’t slant so much. It wouldn’t be that far of a drop from this window. I wouldn’t break myself like Alden did if I dropped out unless I rolled off the second roof, but I don’t think that would happen.
Good god. Has it really come to this? Am I really contemplating jumping out of the window?
Also, I feel for my captor. I hate imagining him as a kid—well, a teenager, technically, but still a kid. I hate thinking about him with a maniacal father who treated him badly. I hate that his arm is all mangled and wrong and scarred, even now. How did he survive on the streets for over a year like that? I get this image of him, not as the strong, broad, gorgeous man he is now—damn, it’s annoying to think of him like that, but I can’t stop because my ovaries are apparently very sadistic bastards—but as a broken, skinny, haunted kid who was not much more than skin and bones, his desperate need to survive and possibly his desire for revenge the only things holding him together.