Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Henri’s in the living room, on his laptop, when we enter. Older than I am but a bit younger than Cain, Henri is pale, with a receding hairline, but wiry and strong. He lost eyesight in one eye during a fight overseas, and now swears off any formal office arrangement.
He nods in greeting to us, but never takes his eyes off the screen. He says he’s allergic to a desk. I think it has something to do with his poor eyesight and the bright lighting in here by the large picture windows.
Henri opens his mouth but, seeing that Cain’s on a mission, he slams it shut.
Joe’s gathering a few men in the hall for a training of some sort. They’re wearing camouflaged gear and boots, and standing at attention like soldiers in boot camp. When Cain passes, they all watch him with wide-eyed wonder and admiration.
He inspires that type of response no matter where we go. It’s got something to do with the way he carries himself, I think.
“Cain,” Skylar yells from her room on the third floor. “When can we get a Christmas tree?”
“Christ,” he mutters and rolls his eyes. I’m guessing that won’t be an after-Thanksgiving special for him then.
His phone beeps with a text, then again with a call. He glances at the screen with a scowl, then powers it off.
Oh. Oh, wow. I’ve never seen him shut his phone completely off.
He really is giving me his undivided attention.
I wonder if I’ve read him wrong all this time…
When we reach his office door, he drops all semblance of being Mr. Nice. I watch, with more than a little trepidation, as he yanks open his door, then gestures for me to go in. “Please,” he says with a frown. “You first.”
I walk ahead of him tentatively, as if waiting for him to pounce on me at any minute or at the very least smack my ass.
I have no idea why. I can’t really put my finger on it. I don’t know if it’s the predatory look in his eyes, or his take-no-prisoners tone of voice. I don’t know if it’s because he’s basically told everyone who works for him to leave us alone, or because I threw down the gauntlet by the training field. But he has plans for me, and I have no idea what those plans are.
The door shuts behind us, and I let out an audible gasp.
“Why so scared, Violet?” Cain asks, in a tone that tells me he’s fucking pleased with himself.
“You just have that look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
He stalks to his desktop like he’s about to wrestle it to the floor, and when I don’t respond at first, his narrowed gaze cuts to me. I open my mouth, and I’m about to respond, when there’s a sharp knock at the door.
“Who is it?” Cain practically fumes.
“Joe.”
“Come in.” He points to a chair for me to sit in, and I glare right back at him. No, you do not, Mr. Master. He shakes his head at me, his frown promising that we’re going to have a serious talk when Joe’s gone.
The tension in the air must be palpable because Joe freezes mid-step and looks from me to Cain. “Bad timing?”
“No. What is it?” Cain asks. He fires up the laptop.
“Got another call from Robbins.”
“Fucking hell,” Cain mutters to himself. “What now?”
“Wants an update?”
“I’ll give her a fucking update,” I volunteer, but Cain slices a hand in my direction as if telling me to knock it off. The goddamn nerve of him…
“She says it’s been three days, and she wants to know when you’ll have the information.”
“You can tell her, per our contract, that I need a week or more before I respond, but that I always try to respond within a week. It’s been three days.”
He grimaces, then nods. “She’s impatient.”
Cain’s eyes narrow. “So am I.”
He’s got that right.
The door finally shuts with a bang when Joe leaves. Cain stands, storms over to the door, then throws the deadbolt.
My heart beats faster.
I let my eyes rove over him for a few seconds, and I don’t breathe while I do. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeved faded tees in a dark gray that brings out the blue-gray storms in his eyes he gets from time to time. It’s tight across his chest and arms, like most clothes designed for normal humans typically are. He’s wearing faded jeans, frayed at the bottom. One might think they’re stylish, but if I know Cain, it’s because it’s one of only a handful of pairs he owns, and he’s owned them for decades.
His heavy, thick boots are planted on the floor, and his hands are on his hips. I sit in his huge, leather desk chair, absolutely dwarfed by it, and nonchalantly plop my feet up on his desk.