Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
That seems a little beside the point right now.
Agreed.
Sliding out of my chair onto my knees occurs merely split seconds before my office door is flung open.
Panic is painted on Ptur’s expression and demeanor alike. Waves of worry whirl through the air with such force that I’m pushed back onto my heels as I struggle to endure the physical weight of his anxiety.
What in the fuck is happening?
Feel.
Thank you for that feedback, Captain Obvious.
Comfort.
Consoling him in what is slowly becoming our own twisted love language casually happens on a teasing grin. “Do you not believe in knocking, Mr. Draak?”
And just like that, the air in the room shifts.
Fear retreats yet fury is quick to replace it.
Well, I tried.
“What in the actual D is going on in here?!” There isn’t time to respond before he’s snapping again. “What in the actual D are you doing?! And why are you on your fucking knees!?”
Comfort.
Maybe when he stops losing his shit.
“Why is your desk-” he cuts himself off, his hand, however, continuing to speak on his behalf with flailing motions. “And are those…feet?” His frame darts closer. “Is there a fucking being under all that shit?! How did it get there?! Why is it there?! What-”
“Mr. Draak, your volume nor your tone is conducive for this conversation.”
“Mate-”
“No-huh,” my finger point is swift and sharp, “this is not my lunch break. This is company time; and therefore, we operate by company policy. You are to address me by the proper title and with the appropriate amount of respect, or not only will I report your incivility to the other board members, but I will also fine you for your bad-mannered behavior and have you enrolled in a six-day anger-manager retreat that includes more trust falls and bongo drum circles than you can dream of.”
His jaw lowers in what appears to be shock but feels like awe.
Both.
Yeah, I was thinking it was both.
“Now,” two of my non-bloody fingers brush away the strands of hair annoying my forehead, “I want you to go back into the hall, knock, and wait to be invited like this is my office rather than the bathroom you tend to hog in the morning.”
The reference to our personal life sparks a flicker of a smirk for both of us. Begrudgingly—something he announces at the same time he turns on his heels to do as he was ordered—Ptur exits the room.
Delivers a narrowed glare.
Maintains the look of displeasure and pounds on the still open door.
I’m not sure what’s the bigger challenge, swallowing my laughter or refraining from rolling my eyes. Keeping my composure needlessly increases in difficulty courtesy of the platinum smoke steaming from his ears and the gurling noises from the incapacitated creature waiting to be rolled up in the gaudy rug I’m actually okay with getting rid of. “Come in, Mr. Draak.”
Ptur marches in and slams the door shut behind him, damn near knocking it off its hinges.
You know what…I’m just gonna let him have that one.
The expression I’m displaying remains neutral. “Is there something you needed from me?”
His impeccably well-built figure struggles not to shake in irritation as he replies, “I have a few questions I would like you to answer, Miss Pennington.”
“Of course.” Another polite grin is presented. “Please, proceed.”
“What happened to your desk?”
“It met an unexpected disassembly during an intense interview.”
He briefly presses his lips together, anger beginning to boil once more. “Is this…so-called intense interview also the reason you’re holding a pair of bloody scissors?”
Nonchalantly placing them down beside my bent leg is done prior to nodding.
“And who exactly was this intense interview with, Miss Pennington?”
“Mr. Frankford.”
The speaking of his name causes the creature to groan and Ptur’s voice to waiver in steadiness. “Is that…him?”
“What remains of him, yes.”
Bright platinum is flashed in his wide-eyed gaze. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that Mr. Frankford is some sort of vampire plant for Magitek-”
“He’s not soulless.”
His interruption receives a quirked eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“He’s not soulless.”
“The hissing sound I heard and fanged teeth I knocked out could be used as evidence to counter that conclusion.”
“He’s a dhampir, which is a hybrid being. It’s half-human, half-vampire.”
“Semantics!”
“Your volume nor your tone is conducive for this conversation, Miss Pennington.”
Having my words tossed back at me has my fingers itching to pick up the scissors and throw them his direction.
“It is not semantics whatsoever. Being a dhampir means he was born with a soul that is still in his possession unlike your best friend Kyla who lost hers when she was turned. It also means immobilizing him—without killing him—has to be done differently than it would if he were just a soulless or just a human. These aren’t semantics, Miss Pennington. These are critical details. Life and death if you will.”
“Is that why staking him through a certain point on the spine with scissors would kill him instead of staking him through the heart?”