Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
When I reach him, I grab him off the ground and lift him to his feet. He screams like an animal caught in a trap.
“Lyam,” Cosette shouts. “He didn’t hurt me, Lyam. I promise he didn’t.”
She’s a sensitive soul who can’t stand the sight of violence or blood. Of course she’s trying to save his ass.
I click my teeth together and breathe through my nose before I respond.
“I didn’t ask if he hurt you. He’s smart enough to know that if he hurt you, he’d wish for death before I killed him.”
“Sir, I was only doing what your brother said. I was only—”
“Laying your disgusting hands on my hostage? And then after you fucking wet your pants when you saw me, let her go so she nearly fell? Do you have any goddamn sense in your head?”
I don’t know why her pleas sway me. I won’t kill him, not in front of her.
I lift my gun and snap the butt against his temple. He cries out in pain as I strike him again. “You touched her. You put your hands on her.” I hit him again. I want him to hurt. “Then when you saw me, you only wanted to save your ass. She could’ve broken her arms or cracked her head.” I hit him again. “No one gets close to her but me. If you so much as breathe the same air she breathes again, there will be consequences.”
I hit him again and again until he’s bloodied and cowering, begging for mercy. “You know who I am. You know I won’t tell you again. If you ever come near her again, I won’t be so nice.”
I lift him and throw him toward Philippe. “Take him back to Corsica.”
Philippe blanches. “He might need a medic—”
“He can wait on the plane. Back to Corsica, now.”
I turn my back to them and reach for Cosette.
“And you”— I take her hand and yank her to her feet— “will come with me.”
TWO
Cosette
“There’s blood on your shirt.”
He glances down before looking back at the road in front of him. “Why, so there is. Must be Claude’s.”
He doesn’t care at all that he’s splattered in another man’s blood.
Figures.
I shudder and turn away to look out the window, rubbing my wrists now that he’s taken off my restraints. I stare outside the window.
When I boarded the plane, I didn’t know where they were taking me or who they were pairing me with. I felt my heart sink when I saw the familiar city skyline of Paris.
I wish I could love Paris like others do. But it’s a city for lovers, something I’ll never be. It’s also a place that haunts me, one I’d like to forget.
But I forgot my dislike for Paris when I saw who they stationed as my captor.
Lyam.
Why Lyam?
There was a time when he turned my head with those fiery, hazel eyes and that stern, utterly masculine face that stops women’s hearts. The black ink that marks his body with the memories of what he’s survived, who he is, what has meaning in his life. They say French men make the most passionate lovers, and I think a part of me wondered if I’d find love here.
I know better now.
I watch him surreptitiously as he drives the car with the command and authority of an expert. His large, muscled body, honed from hours upon hours of hard work at the gym, moves with fluid grace as he navigates the busy streets, teeming with curious tourists. I watch as he thoughtfully brushes a thumb along his lower lip, his eyes narrowed on the road in front of us.
Someone with an untrained eye might think he’s a fitness model, a personal trainer, or even a professional athlete on holiday. Dressed casually in expensive but simple clothing, he’s the very picture of health and vitality. Sculpted and rugged, it still makes my heart turn over in my chest when he moves, his muscles rippling with grace.
Perfection.
And why is it so beautiful here? Paris at dusk, silhouetted in velvety blue, is stunning.
I sit in the passenger seat of the car he drives—a gorgeous, armored Ferrari he had custom designed, no doubt with help from their friends the Rossis in America. Everyone in Europe knows about Mario Rossi’s affinity for stunning, insanely expensive cars.
I remember when he talked with Mario. I remember when he told me all about the car, in vivid detail, his eyes shining and proud, almost boyish. Unlike how he is these days.
He used to be a lot more carefree. But that was back when we liked each other. Maybe even loved each other.
I miss that Lyam.
I shut my eyes because hot tears blind my vision and I’d rather die than let him see me cry and know he won. I take in a deep breath and get my shit together, then let it out slowly as I gaze out at elegant buildings and glowing streetlamps.