Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Even if I hadn’t already heard stories of him bragging about taking over his father’s business and his penchant for spreading merchandise among his lowlife friends, I’d be on my guard around him. He’s the kind of guy who’ll smile in your face as he’s slipping your most priceless heirloom in his pocket while fondling your sister with his other hand.
My chest tightens at the thought. I can’t make the image materialize in my head—it’s that disgusting—but I don’t need to see it to know it’s possible.
Scarlet would never take this long to get back to the table if it wasn’t for someone holding her up.
“I’ll look for her,” I offer, already pushing my chair away from the table while folding my napkin.
It wouldn’t do for Xander’s son to leave during the discussion of important matters, but I can take my discreet leave without raising any eyebrows.
Once I’m out of the dining room, I force myself to take a slow, steady breath. I’ve already convinced myself the bastard has forced himself on top of her, and the extreme reaction my body experiences is one I need to tamp down. My clenched fists swing at my sides, and my heart thumps against my ribs.
If I grind my teeth any harder, I’ll need a trip to the dentist.
This is Scarlet. Yes, the very grown-up dress she wore tonight had me doing a double take; I can admit that to myself. Neither of her parents would allow her to walk around looking like a slut, and she doesn’t, but she certainly looks older than her fifteen years.
At some point, when I wasn’t paying attention, she developed a woman’s body. Fuller, curvier, showcased to perfection in a light summer dress that’s both sweet and sexy—sexy because of its sweetness, I now understand.
I’m a pervert even thinking this way, but facts are facts. She’s grown up. Now comes a new phase of her life, one which I’m sure she believes she’s ready for, though I doubt she has the first idea of what it will entail.
For instance, she’d never think twice about getting up to use the bathroom in her own family’s home. It wouldn’t occur to her that a piece of shit like Enzo Grimaldi would follow her in hopes of getting her alone.
I’ll fucking kill him if he’s touched a hair on her head.
“We’d better get back to the dining room.”
I hear her before I see her. The tightness in her voice has the effect of setting a match to a fuse. A fuse connected to a powder keg. The powder keg being me.
My pace quickens, shoes slapping against the marble floor in a furious rhythm. Were I not this close to losing my shit, I might take pains to walk quietly and sneak up on them. It would hardly be the first time I’ve crept up on Scarlet over the years while watching over her stubborn ass. She’s so sure she’s in control of herself and that nothing can touch her.
She’s a Rossi through and through.
Normally, that would leave me fighting back a proud grin.
Not now. I’m too busy seeing red.
The powder room door is open, and the room is empty.
“Please, leave me alone.” It’s coming from the library, one door down, and it’s tighter and higher in pitch than before. “I mean it. We have to get back to the dining room.”
“Why? So we can die of boredom?” he asks just as I enter. “I find the view before me to be much better.”
My stomach turns at the sight of Scarlet trapped on a leather sofa, her fair skin flushed, her blue eyes so large they appear to come out of her face.
He’s leaning over her with his much larger body trapping her, holding her in place with an arm on either side of her head. When she attempts to slip under one of those arms, he merely leans in closer, lowering his head to sniff her neck while she recoils, whimpering in fear and misery.
I’m no stranger to rage.
It’s a normal state of being for me, something I must guard myself against. It’s important that I vent it from time to time when the stakes are low so that I control it before it can control me.
The occasional fight, a hard workout, that sort of thing.
There’s no controlling this.
I don’t think my feet touch the floor as I fly across the room.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, placing a hand on his shoulder and pulling him back. All things considered, I’m proud of myself. If I had my way, I’d tear his fucking arm off and beat him to death with it.
How dare he? Who the fuck does he think he is?
I know who he is—the son of an important family associate.
Which is the only reason his arm remains attached to his shoulder. Why I stop at merely pulling him away from her instead of taking the marble bust from its nearby stand and slamming it into his head.