Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
As I predicted, he comes powering through the door like an F5 tornado, hell-bent on destroying anything in his way. He barely manages to stop in time, but not before partially barreling into me, the toes of his expensive leather loafers scuffing against my worn Chuck Taylors. I fall back against the dresser with a breathless oomph as he straightens himself, too close for comfort.
Glancing down at my feet so I don’t have to meet his gaze, I’m reminded that we do not come from the same worlds.
The typical fear and anxiety that trickles into my veins any time he comes near me makes it hard for me to swallow, to think, to do anything but stand there looking like an idiot. I hate this feeling of helplessness. There’s no reason he should have this effect on me. He may be painfully good-looking, powerful, and filthy rich, but he’s just a man.
That’s all any of them are.
Swallowing my fear, I lick my lips and force myself to look up from my feet and into his dark green eyes.
Sebastian thinks he hides his scars well, but I know better. I know that beneath that soulless, annoyed expression he gives everyone lies a man who’s both damaged and hurt. A man haunted by his past and future. And it’s sad because maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole, I’d be willing to help him. Or I don’t know, at least try not to hate him. But not now, not ever.
He wears his usual irritated expression.
Is it really necessary to slam every door in the house?
The question sits on the tip of my tongue, but the thought hardens into concrete on my lips when his annoyance morphs into anger right before my eyes. Even knowing that I’m not truly afraid of him, I can’t make my body react differently. All I can do is stand here trembling.
Dammit.
I’m so disappointed in myself. I don’t know why I thought this time would be different, that I’d be able to stand up to him. I’m not really surprised; angry men have a habit of making me fear for my life. It doesn't help that my employer is perpetually angry at the world either.
His gaze rakes over my skin as he assesses my navy blue polo, khaki pants, and sneakers. He’s silently judging me…again.
I straighten my shoulders and tug the hem of my uniform shirt down. I’d really just love to have one day when I don’t feel self-conscious in my own skin.
“Wh-what do you want?” The words don’t come out half as strong as I want them to.
His full lips twist into a scowl as he drags his gaze back up my body, stopping once he reaches my face. “Did you really just ask me that?” He shakes his head like I asked him to buy me a new car or something. “What do I want? How about, how can I help you, Mr. Arturo, or can I get you something, Mr. Arturo? Now if you’re done wasting my time, you can start packing your bag.”
Huh? Packing my bag. What on earth is he talking about? I stare at him, hoping to convey my confusion without using words, but it doesn’t seem to work. He doesn’t explain, so I blurt out my question after a moment.
“What do you mean, pack my bags? I don’t understand.”
“For fuck's sake,” he growls, then turns his attention to my dresser. The same one I’m gripping the edge of. Without care, he rips open the top drawer. Shock morphs into embarrassment when he starts rifling around inside.
What the fuck?
“What are you doing? Stop that!” I place my hand flat on the drawer and attempt to push it back in so I don't have to see his long, graceful fingers clutching the lace and cotton of my underwear, but it’s useless.
He doesn't miss a beat, doesn’t even spare me a glance as he brushes my hand away and continues his assault on my underwear. After tossing a handful onto the top of the dresser, he moves to the next drawer down, where my shirts are neatly folded.
“Why are these all uniform shirts?”
If I had more balls, I’d probably say what’s on my mind at this very moment and ask him if he’s stupid or just oblivious. He has to know I do nothing but attend classes and work for him. I have no time for a social life. I refrain, though. There’s no point in instigating the beast.
Instead, I say mildly, “Because you paid for them, and all my wages go to attending school.”
I watch his forehead wrinkle, and he shoves his sandy-blond hair out of his face to crouch down, continuing to dig through my sparse pants drawer.
“What the fuck, Ely?”
I flinch at the stupid nickname, the one he adopted and keeps using simply because he knows how much I hate it. It’s the same name my father used to call me while he beat me. I don’t bother telling him the real reason I hate being called it; he’d only use it against me, and he doesn’t need more ammunition.