Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
At last, my fingers brush over cold, hard metal. I rip off the tape and grab the key. The knocking on the door has stopped. Whoever is on the other side is rattling the handle now.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I jump down and fumble with the old-fashioned lock on the drawer. The mechanism is rusted and stiff. I battle to turn the key.
A bang shakes the door.
Shit.
When I finally get the drawer open, I nearly pull it off its runners. I grab the gun just as the sound of splintering wood announces that the intruder is entering the house. Doing my best to ignore the heavy footsteps that get closer and closer, I click the magazine in place and take off the safety exactly as I’ve practiced. Then I spin around, holding the gun in both hands and pointing the barrel in front of me.
The sight of the man who stalks into my kitchen immobilizes me in shock. It shouldn’t, seeing that I’ve been preparing myself and envisioning this encounter for five years. Yet the picture of him in his dark suit sucks the oxygen from my lungs. His large form blocks out the fading daylight that spills down the hallway. His mere presence takes up all the space in the room.
My brain screams at me, accusing me of tricking myself. Dante Morici isn’t the young man of twenty-four I remember. For some reason, the last image I saw of him got stuck in my mind. In my bitter and painful recollections, he never aged. For the life of me, I don’t know why not. I don’t know why I never imagined him older. It’s a simple glitch, a malfunction of the psyche. Maybe the memories he left me with were that strong, strong enough to grind to a halt on those last eternal minutes without moving along with time.
Whatever the reason, the man filling my vision and drowning out my surroundings isn’t the man my memory preserved from time. The grooves cutting from his nose to the corners of his mouth run deeper. The lines of his face are more defined, giving him a distinguished edge. His dirty-blond hair is darker. All the golden highlights from carefree hours spent in the sun are gone. His eyes burn with more intensity, the copper flames in them brighter but devoid of any heat. He’s packed on some muscle, his broad shoulders stretching the expensive jacket and his chest filling out a crisp white shirt. The ink peeking from the collar is new, as are the tattoos on his hands. Are the ones hidden beneath his clothes the same? I traced them so many times with my fingers that I can draw them with my eyes closed.
My gaze is drawn to his left hand as he straightens his tie in an act that’s too casual for the situation. A letter is inked on each finger, but I can only make out the E on his pinky and ring finger. His rings obscure the rest. He still wears the insignia ring that belonged to his father on his index finger and the silver one I gave him for his birthday on his middle finger. The onyx ring on his right hand is new. It’s my father’s wedding ring. I don’t know what shocks me the most—that he stole that ring off the dead body of my father or that he hasn’t removed the one I gifted him.
When he smooths down his jacket, my gaze follows the action. My senses are heightened. I notice every minute detail from the familiar smell of his subtle aftershave to the thick veins that run over the back of his hand. The clean, short nails. I haven’t forgotten how big or strong those hands are. I always knew they had blood on them.
I force myself to look back at his face. At twenty-nine, he’s more devastatingly handsome than I could’ve ever imagined him. But it’s the vibe that rolls off him that hits me the hardest, the danger that he exudes as he slides his icy gaze from my eyes to the gun in my hands.
He’s different.
Empty.
Cold.
No, not different. He’s just finally showing his true colors.
I point the gun at his head. “Stay away from me.”
A sliver of a smile cracks through those sensual lips that used to worship my body and whisper lies in my ears.
Taking a step closer, he challenges me. “Tatiana.” His vocal cords are rough around my name. The sound is rusted. Raw. He says it as if the syllables are new, as if he’s never uttered it before, never bit it out like a man in pain during the final throes of his pleasure when he emptied himself in me. “After all this time, are those really the first words you want to say to me?”