Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“What did I say about talking back? Do you wish for a few years in prison? Is that it?”
“N-no.”
“Seems like it.”
“I’m sorry. Okay?”
I don’t like the tone she speaks to me with. It doesn’t sound apologetic at all. If anything, it’s a bit sarcastic. This woman is a lot different from my Lia.
Deciding to let it go for now, I study her, tapping my fingers on my thigh. She’s wearing baggy jeans and an ugly striped sweater that swallows her tiny frame, making her appear like a runaway pubescent kid. But her clothes don’t stink like the urine and vomit from her coat.
Something else smells, though.
“Remove the gloves.”
This time, she doesn’t ask why and does as she’s told. I throw them out the window, too. Black lines of dirt have taken refuge under her ragged nails and a few red blisters mar her fingers due to the cold.
I reach into the console beside the driver’s seat and retrieve some wet wipes. She stiffens when I take her hands in mine, her pupils dilating as I clean them off. They’re as frail and small as Lia’s, and they’re pale, almost to a sickening level. Only the red blisters and the green veins peeking from underneath her skin show a break of color.
Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve my wife’s wedding ring and slide it into her finger. Her expression widens and she stiffens but she thankfully keeps her mouth shut.
Instead of asking her to remove the hat, I do it myself. She remains still as her greasy blonde—or half-blonde—hair falls to her shoulders. After I throw the filthy scrap of fur out the window to join the other trash, I use the wet wipes to clean her face.
She tries to do it herself, but a single glance from me makes her drop her hands to her lap. I glide the cloth over her forehead, the soft contours of her cheeks, and the ridge of her nose. When I move to her chapped lips, they part slightly. I try meeting her gaze to see what she’s thinking, but she’s staring at her hands lying limply in her lap.
When my thumb pauses at the lower line of her bottom lip, a dark desire grips hold of me, and I’m tempted to bite it into my mouth and feast on the cracked exterior. To see if she’ll scream.
As if sensing my thoughts, Winter trembles, but it’s for something a lot different than desire.
Fear. Raw, potent fear.
I release her and she pushes back against the leather seat.
Opening the car door, I step out and take in a long inhale of the night air. I stride to her side and open hers as well. “Get out.”
She does, cautiously, and instantly shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. When I remove my coat and drape it around her, she stares up at me with a weird expression, one that says she never expected someone like me would do that.
Kolya shrugs off his jacket and offers it to me, but I shake my head. I’m not cold. If anything, I’ve been hotter than normal today.
“Follow me,” I tell her and she starts to hobble.
When I turn around to inspect the problem, she comes to a halt, her sock-covered foot resting on top of the other.
I wrap my arm around her back, lift her under her knees, and carry her bridal style. She’s too thin and bony; it should be a crime.
She stiffens, even though her fingers grip my shirt. “I can walk on my own.”
“You’re missing a shoe.”
“I can manage.”
“Or you can stay still.”
“You…” She clears her throat, and as if not wanting Kolya and Yan, who are following close behind, to hear, she whispers, “You said I smell.”
“Let me worry about that.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then seems to think better of it and purses it shut.
Once we’re inside one of the department stores and get in one of the elevators, I hit the button and the four of us go to the tenth floor. The mall is closed, but the manager stayed late at my request.
As soon as the doors open, we’re greeted by her and three of her most trusted workers, whom Kolya forced to sign an NDA in blood before we went to fetch Winter. The manager, a woman in her fifties who seems to have a painted smile on her lips, nods at our arrival.
Winter misses the gesture because she’s completely entranced by the view ahead of us—the designer clothes hanging under the strong white lights, the luxurious sitting areas, and the high-class décor.
Her nails dig into my shirt as if she’s considering this place a threat. However, she considers me a threat, too, so the gesture means nothing.
I set her to her feet and she staggers before standing upright. When her huge eyes scan her surroundings, she visibly shrinks at the grandiosity of it all. It takes her about a minute before she finally stares at the manager, acknowledging her smile with a nod.