Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I'm studying a painting that might be a Monet—the brushwork is right but the color temperature seems warmer than his usual palette—when I become aware that my shadow count has changed.
Two guards behind me, same as all morning.
And one very tall, very silent presence that has materialized approximately three feet to my left.
I don't jump. I'm proud of that.
"Does appearing out of nowhere run in your family," I ask without turning around, keeping my eyes fixed on the painting like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen, "or is it a skill you had to practice?"
"You haven't eaten."
That's so far from what I expected him to say that I do turn then, startled out of my careful composure.
Devyn is in another one of his perfectly tailored suits, this one a deep charcoal that makes his eyes look almost amber in the light from the windows. Liquid gold with depths I can't read. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, and there's a tension in his jaw that suggests he's been awake for a while, dealing with things I'm not privy to, carrying weights I can't see.
He looks like a man with too much on his mind, and somehow that only makes him more unfairly attractive.
Which is honestly just rude.
Not my problem, I remind myself firmly. He's the one who kidnapped me. Proposed to me. Whatever this is.
"I'm not hungry," I say. "I'm investigating."
"You're eating."
He says it like the matter is already decided, like my input on the subject of my own stomach is an irrelevance he doesn't have time to consider. And then, without waiting for a response, he turns and starts walking, clearly expecting me to follow like a well-trained pet.
I don't follow.
For about three seconds.
Then he pauses, glances back over his shoulder, and raises one eyebrow in a way that manages to communicate both impatience and inevitability at the same time. A look that says we both know how this ends, so why are you making it difficult?
My feet start moving.
Traitors. My feet are absolute traitors, and I'm going to have a serious conversation with them later about loyalty and self-respect and not just doing whatever the intimidating mafia king wants.
"This is ridiculous," I inform him as I catch up, slightly breathless from the pace he's setting with his stupidly long legs. "You can't just decide when I eat. I'm not a child. I'm a grown woman with autonomy and—"
"You skipped breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry at breakfast, and that's not the point—"
"And dinner last night."
"I was tired, but you're not listening—"
"And lunch yesterday."
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Nothing comes out.
Because he's right, and I don't have an excuse for that one, and he knows it. The truth is that my stomach has been a tight knot of anxiety since I woke up in that chapel, and food has been the last thing on my mind.
But how does he know that? Why is a mafia king tracking the eating habits of his captive bride-to-be?
"Fine." I try to say it with dignity, try to make it sound like a choice rather than a surrender. "I'll eat. But only because—"
I don't finish the sentence. What's the point? We both know I'm going to do what he wants. We both know I already am.
Something changes at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. That almost-smile that I'm learning to recognize, the one that makes me feel like I've surprised him in a way that pleases him.
I look away before I can examine why that pleases me too.
HE LEADS ME TO A SMALL dining room I haven't seen before, flooded with natural light from a bay window that overlooks the gardens. A vase of white roses sits at the center of the table, and there's only one place setting laid out on the crisp white tablecloth.
One setting. He's not staying.
I don't know why that thought brings something that feels almost like disappointment. That's ridiculous. I should be relieved.
I am relieved.
Definitely. Absolutely. One hundred percent relieved.
Devyn pulls out the chair and looks at me expectantly.
"You're kidding."
The look he gives me suggests he has never kidded about anything in his entire life. That the very concept of kidding is beneath him, an inefficiency he eliminated from his existence years ago.
I sit down. With dignity. Making it very clear through my posture that this is my choice and I am choosing it freely.
He pushes my chair in, and his hands brush my shoulders as he does. Just for a second, just the barest whisper of contact through the fabric of my blouse.
My breath catches.
Then he steps back, and I'm left staring at the empty place setting and trying to remember how breathing works.
A staff member appears with a covered plate, and when they lift the silver dome I'm expecting something elaborate. Foie gras, maybe. Something architectural.