Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I still find myself nodding. “Today.”
Beast gives a little smile, like he finds my qualifying terms cute. That dual urge to punch him and kiss him rises, and I focus on drying off instead. He opens the door and glances out into the room. “Get dressed, Gaeton. Something nice like you’d wear to the old man’s house.” His brows lower for the barest moment. “I need to have some of my shit brought here.” He disappears into my bedroom and I follow more slowly, already bracing for seeing Isabelle.
She’s not there.
Guilt pricks me, and no amount of telling myself that I’m balancing the scales makes it disappear. I dress quickly, pulling on a pair of black slacks and a dark red button-down. After the slightest hesitation, I slip on socks and shoes, too. Beast is setting a specific kind of stage, so it pays to be thorough.
For his part, he makes a quick call and then frowns down at his discarded clothes. It would figure that Beast is one of those people who can’t stand wearing clothing more than once. I consider him. He’d be swimming in any of my slacks and shirts. “Hold on.” I dig through my closet to come up with a pair of lounge pants that I bought on a whim—and promptly shrank in the wash.
He raises his eyebrows when I toss them to him, but pulls them on without a word. They’re still a little big, hanging low on his hips despite him tying them tightly. Not quite the look he’s going for, but it’s a look I can appreciate. He glances at the door, but makes no move to open it. “Sit at the head of the table and wait.”
I can see where he’s going with this, but part of me still wants to dig in my heels. “You know this won’t make it right.”
“Do I know that?” Another ghost of a smile. “Go sit at the head of the table, Gaeton. Let’s restart your day.”
In the end, there’s nothing to do but obey. I agreed to this—both the original pact and the one that includes Beast’s cock at my disposal. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be in the mood to fight him, but right now, I’m so fucking tired. Letting him call the shots is exactly what I need, even if I don’t want to admit as much to him. Looking into those sharp blue eyes, I realize I don’t have to admit shit.
He understands.
Fuck, maybe he always has.
I don’t know how to grapple with that knowledge, so I put it away and follow Beast out of the room. Isabelle sits on the couch, wrapped in one of the thick blankets I had stashed in the chest coffee table, and staring out the window. She doesn’t look over as we approach, which is just as well.
I was a dick earlier. I humiliated her, and then we left her hanging. If it was part of the plan, that’d be one thing, but I can’t pretend it was. I wanted to hurt her, and so I did. An asshole move in a normal relationship. Damn near unforgivable when she’s entrusting herself to us the way she is.
I make it one step toward her when Beast catches my eye and gives the slightest shake of his head.
Right. Follow his command.
I stalk past the couch and nudge out the chair with my foot. I throw myself into the chair and slouch there.
And wait.
Chapter 12
Isabelle
I hear the men come out of the bedroom, and I can’t help tensing as Gaeton walks past me. I don’t know what I expect. For him to keep cutting me down the way I probably deserve. For him to pretend like he never delivered that sting. For something else altogether.
I don’t expect him to ignore me completely and walk to the table situated just off the kitchen. It’s built just as sturdy as everything else in this apartment, a square table that looks like it can easily hold a handful of people dancing on it. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window.
What’s going on?
Beast appears on my other side and crouches in front of me. He’s wearing what are obviously Gaeton’s lounge pants, and the sight of his bare chest has the past slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave. It took six months of dating before he walked around shirtless in front of me the way he’s doing now. He’d die before he admitted it aloud, but he’s self-conscious about his scars.
He reaches out and runs his hands along the edge of the blanket I found, his knuckles skating along my skin. “Do you want to use your safe word?”
I flinch back, but his hold on the blanket keeps me from going anywhere. “You can’t honestly want to continue after that.”