Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Goodnight,” I say and close the door.
I stand there for a second, eyes closed, thinking about his mouth between my legs, thinking about his voice ringing in my ears, thinking about that kiss.
My freaking god, that kiss.
What happened in the hot tub was a mistake. It was a stupid decision, a self-destructive distraction. Getting through this marriage with Julien is going to be hard enough, but now I just made it even worse.
I crossed the line. I got a taste of what being with him can feel like—
And I really, really liked it.
It felt so good, and I don’t regret it at all.
Which is going to be a problem.
Chapter 19
Julien
Jean meets me at the steps to the mansion. “Took you long enough. I called a dozen times.”
“I was busy.” I follow him up and into the building. The guards all look grim and nod as I walk past. It’s nearly dawn and I’m exhausted. “Where is he?”
“This way.” Jean takes me down a side passage and to a door that leads into the basement. The stairs don’t make so much as a creak while we descend.
Cinderblock walls, a narrow hallway, a room at the far end. Everything soundproofed to the point where Metallica could play a stadium concert down here at full volume and nobody would hear it. Light shines from underneath the reinforced metal door. Jean unlocks it with a heavy-duty key and it opens on oiled hinges.
Inside is a man. He’s duct-taped to a chair overtop of a drain in the middle of the bare concrete floor. A dull, naked bulb hangs above him. Off to the side, a series of knives, pliers, and other various tools sit on top of a plastic-covered table.
The man is only half conscious. His face is swollen from a vicious beating, but he’s still very much alive.
I guess he’s twenty-five, maybe as old as thirty, but it’s hard to tell with the wounds. Thinning dark hair, a black shirt and black jeans, both stained with blood. Big, hooked nose. Bad teeth.
“How much did he tell you?” I ask, circling over to the tools.
“Only a little so far. His name, who he works for, how many men were in the truck. I have a few trusted soldiers out catching the rest of them.”
“Very good.” I pick up a thin deboning knife. Flexible, deadly sharp, and terrifying. Good for getting under fingernails. I turn to my victim and study the blade. “You made a mistake yesterday. You never should have gone near my wife.”
The man groans. He lifts his chin and stares at me defiantly. “Dusan will make you pay for this, you swine, you unwashed—”
Jean backhands him into silence. “Watch your mouth,” he snarls.
I nod at Jean and dismiss him before approaching my Serbian captive. A part of me wonders if this man is related to Dusan as well, but I push the thought away; I’m far beyond stopping this fight now.
I had sympathy for Dusan. I never wanted this battle. Grandpère forced my hand and pushed me into a war I still don’t believe will be profitable.
But my wife was nearly hurt, and I can’t forgive that.
“How long were you watching my apartment?” I ask, approaching slowly.
“I don’t know. Hours.”
I press the edge of the knife against his shoulder and flick my wrist. A thin line appears in his skin and he sucks in a hissing breath.
“Were you trying to hit the girl with your truck?”
“Fuck no. My idiot partner’s gun jammed and I was distracted.” He hesitates, cocking his head. “She dead?”
“Lucky for you, she is not.” I give him another slice, just for fun. “Tell me where my drugs are.”
“Fuck you.”
“Try again.” Another slice. He groans, lips pulled back in a pained grimace.
“I’m dead either way. You’re going to kill me if I don’t talk, or Dusan’s going to kill me if I do. I might as well die with dignity.”
He’s got an extremely good point. Most of my basement visitors don’t reach that conclusion until it’s much too late.
“From where I stand, you have two options. Die here and now, or take the chance that I’ll let you go. What’s it matter if you give me what I want? It isn’t like Dusan’s going to come save you.”
“Fuck you,” he says, but there’s a lot less force in his defiance now.
I grab one of his hands and shove the knife between his fingers.
I yank, slicing the sensitive skin, cutting open the webbing.
He screams and I do it again before I let him go and step back.
“One more time. Where are the drugs?”
“I’ll tell you, just please don’t do that again,” he moans, and starts rattling off a location. I take out my phone and type the location into the notes app before pressing the blade of the knife against my captive’s throat.