Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Three more people.
Two.
One.
“Put your belongings in the bin, then step through,” the guard instructs.
“That won’t be necessary,” a cold, menacing voice says. “She won’t be going anywhere.”
Like ice straight to my veins, my body freezes in its place. I don’t have to turn around to know who is standing behind me.
Pluto…and he’s here to drag me back into the Underworld against my will.
Kostas
She left. Just like I knew she fucking would. Grabbed her purse and waltzed right out the door. I have to give her credit. Sneaking away rather than taking a cab from the front entrance of the hotel was clever. Not clever enough, though. I anticipated her move. She’s a Nikolaides after all.
Not for long.
Every person we pass ignores her fuming. Around these parts, they see me and they move the fuck on. Nobody messes with my family. Not locals, not airport workers, not cab drivers, not even goddamn tourists. Everyone sees the blinking neon sign above my head that says: Don’t fuck with me.
Or else.
Those who fuck with me and my family—like Niles Nikolaides—learn what else we have in store for them. In his case, he forfeited over his blond vixen of a daughter. Others pay with their blood. I prefer blood, but in this instance, I’m not unhappy about getting this furious woman into my bed.
Forever.
The thought is equal parts disturbing and thrilling. I’d never admit to my father I’m a lonely bastard who wishes he had someone to come home to every night. He’s happy with Mamá, and has been for my entire life, so it’s only natural I crave the same for myself.
We exit the airport without incident. My charcoal-gray Maserati GranTurismo sits parked in the fire lane. No one writes a ticket. They just ignore me as it should be.
“Get in,” I bite out, my voice cold and commanding as I open the passenger side door.
Her plump lips press together as though she’s thinking desperately of arguing, but in the end, she lets out an exaggerated huff before throwing herself into the car. I close the door and catch the eye of a security guard.
“Women,” he mutters, chuckling at me.
“Women,” I agree. I smirk at him before climbing in my car.
She’s quiet as I drive away from the airport and onto the main road. Her thoughts are loud, though. A cacophony of accusations and hate bouncing around inside the vehicle as though they can physically harm me.
I’m untouchable, moró mou.
I shift through the gears and fly down the road, passing cars along the way. She clutches the side of the door and the console as though that will help her if we were to crash. It won’t. Lucky for her, we won’t crash either. Next to crushing the bones of motherfuckers who cross me, I love to drive and I’m good at it. My father and brother prefer drivers, but not me. I’ll take one of my many cars for a ride any day to escape the stifling responsibilities that weigh on me continuously.
“Am I in trouble?” she finally asks after a few minutes, darting her worried gaze my way.
“For trying to flee the country and hide from me?”
She nods, fear gleaming in her blue eyes.
“I didn’t make the rules clear, so I suppose not,” I tell her, catching her gaze briefly before I turn my attention back on the road. “However, if you run from me again, you’ll be punished. Severely.”
“You’ll kill me?”
“My punishments are never so simple.”
She doesn’t try for more conversation, and I offer none. The drive takes less time than it should because I drive like a bat out of hell. When I finally pull into the hotel, I drive around to the back and down a long road that’s far from tourists’ eyes.
“Where are we going?” she demands, as though she has every right to make demands of me. “I thought you were bringing me back.”
Ignoring her, I climb out of my car and make my way over to her side. I open the door and gesture for her to get out.
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asks, the bravado in her tone gone without a trace.
“Not at the moment.”
Her lips press together, but she exits the vehicle. I grip her bicep and guide her to the groundskeeper’s house on the corner of the property. The groundskeeper nods when we enter his small home unannounced. My barging in with someone in tow is nothing new. I haul her through the living room and into the kitchen. Pushing through the cellar door, I walk her down the narrow, steep stairs into the kelári.
But there is no wine in this cellar.
Only sad attempts for mercy.
There’s no mercy here either.
Adrian sits on the sofa in the corner with his feet perched on the coffee table. In the center of the room, tied to a chair, is a man. Not just any man, but a man who thought he could lie to me.