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)
The warmth of his skin captures me in its dark depths, pulling me under despite myself. We’re separated by his pants and my dress, but it doesn’t even matter. The hold he has on me is magnetic and it keeps getting worse, not better.
He wraps a possessive hand around my hip and I shiver as he speaks calmly, “You would have left?”
“Yes,” I whisper truthfully, because there’s no use in lying now. He’ll see straight through it.
“But how would you have left when you’re monitored?”
I lift my chin. “I would’ve found a way.”
“Like…”
“Dressing as a maid or a delivery man or something.”
His lips tilt in what resembles a smile, yet isn’t. I’ve seen him every day for a whole week and I’ve never seen him smile, not even when he talks to his son. “How would you escape my guards and security?”
“I don’t know. One of them would surely take pity on me and help me out.”
“Take pity and help you out. Interesting.” The way he mulls the words over makes it seem like this entire thing is a real situation, not a hypothetical one.
I shrug. “Not everyone is as heartless as you.”
“And then?” he probes.
“Then, what?”
“Let’s say you succeeded in escaping. How would you survive in the outside world?”
“I’d leave the state and go to the South and work as a waitress or something.”
“And you think you’d get rid of me that easily?”
“I could try.”
“What if I caught you? What if you failed?”
“I’d try again. I wouldn’t stop trying until I succeeded.”
His jaw clenches as if I’ve landed a punch to his face, and his fingers dig painfully into my side. “You will not succeed, Lia. Never.”
“It’s just a hypothetical situation.” I squirm. “Ow. That hurts.”
He loosens his grip on my hip, but he doesn’t let me go. His face is still closed off and I’m lost as to why. Is it because Lia tried to escape before? I hope she succeeded.
An eerie feeling grabs hold of me at the thought that her escape could’ve only succeeded because she ended up dead.
The conversation has darkened his features, his cheekbones appear sharper, harder, like they’re able to cut. I really don’t want him in a sullen mood when I need that drink right now, so I clear my throat, motioning at the library. “Did you read any of these?”
“Why? Interested in reading one?”
“No, thanks. I’m barely finishing that thick as hell document.”
“Not a reader?”
“Nope. I prefer music.” I pause. “You’re probably not a reader either and only keep them for show.”
“I’ve read every book in this office.”
“No way.”
“Yes, I used to sit down and read as much as possible when my father was working here.”
I recall the memos from the document that mentioned his father, Georgy Volkov, who was a leader in the Bratva, too. His picture showed that he had grim, scary features, like he’d snap a person in two if they so much as spoke to him. Adrian shares some of his traits, but his looks and physique are more sophisticated than his father’s. He can easily be considered an honorable gentleman in public, when he’s actually a devil’s minion.
Georgy passed away when Adrian was in his early twenties, and Adrian inherited everything, expanding his influence until he became who he is today.
There was no mention of his mother, though, so I ask, “Did your mother have an influence on your reading habits?”
He raises a brow as if he didn’t expect that question. “Maybe.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Neither. That’s why it’s a maybe.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Is he teasing me?
“Why wasn’t your mother in the document?”
“Because she didn’t exist.”
“Oh. Did she die while you were young?”
“Something like that.”
All his answers are vague at best. I can’t figure out what he’s trying to say or what he isn’t, but at the same time, he’s not completely refusing my questions. If anything, the small conversation has loosened him up a little to the point where his hold around my waist feels intimate. It’s no longer to ensure his control on me, but more like he wants to touch me.
“Did you have a childhood like Jeremy’s?” I ask.
“Like Jeremy’s?”
“As in, your father was absent and your mother had to take care of you?”
“It was the other way around.”
“Your mom was absent?”
He says nothing, his eyes looking at me but not seeming like they’re seeing me. I feel as if I’m losing hold of him, so I blurt, “If you had an absentee parent yourself, shouldn’t you feel Jeremy’s situation more?”
Some of the light goes back to his eyes at the mention of his son. “What about Jeremy’s situation?”
“He barely sees you, even though you mostly work from home.”
“We see each other fine.”
“Have you ever read him a bedtime story?”
“He outgrew those.”
“He’s only five, Adrian. He didn’t outgrow bedtime stories. Besides, he misses you.”