Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
“There was a situation I needed to address first.”
“Right…” The warden shakes his head. “I’ll call for you when we’re done.”
Ackerman disappears, and I take a deep breath.
The last time he sent for me without warning, it was to let me know that my mother was on TV promoting her newest book: Raising a Murderer: How I Stopped Blaming Myself. I honestly wish he hadn’t told me at all; since she never visits or answers my calls, she’s just someone I used to know.
Besides, her previous book—A Daughter’s Cruel Love—is full of unforgivable lies, and it hurts to think about.
“I wish I’d summoned you under better circumstances,” the warden says. “We have quite a bit to go over today, and I’m sure you’d appreciate some small talk first.”
No, please just spit it out…
He stands from his chair and walks to the coffee table. Then he opens a drawer, revealing all my paint tins and brushes.
“I had an officer confiscate your paint from the other side of the wall during breakfast.” He winks. “It’s a good thing I’m always looking out for you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, even though it’s definitely not a good thing.
“I need you to start a new painting for me,” he says, pulling a blank canvas from behind the couch. “My wife loved the last one so much she can’t stop talking about it.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“I’ll also need some small nature-like ones for a few good friends of mine. The first wants a picture of his daughters on a cloud with halos. The second—actually, wait…” He moves closer to me and pulls out a key to unlock my chains. “Go grab some supplies from my study. I want you to take notes before you start.”
“Right away, sir.”
Rushing down the long hallway, I slip into his office and hesitate for a few seconds to make sure he didn’t follow. Then, I make a beeline for the deep freezer in the corner.
Looking through its frosted glass, I realize he’s finally made a mistake.
He forgot to lock it today.
I slowly push the lid open, staring at thick stacks of the warden’s addiction: Passion Strawberry Ice Cream bars.
The pretty pink wrappers boast about having “real, fresh strawberries,” not the processed, “strawberry-like”abominations that are served in the cafeteria.
Despite all the paintings I’ve done for this man—seventy-six and counting—he's never offered me a single ice cream bar. Even when he’s wolfing them down in front of my face, he never thinks to ask if I want one.
Desperate for a taste, I unwrap one. I stare at it for a few seconds—contemplate putting it back—but then I take a huge bite.
Oh. My. God.
Sweet, cold pleasure explodes on my tongue, and I shut my eyes. The bits of strawberries taste like freedom, and the cream is sweeter than anything I’ve had in years.
I hold back a moan and try not to melt in ecstasy.
After devouring the rest of the bar, I unwrap another and wolf it down.
Okay, one more...
Without even realizing it, I’ve inhaled an entire box, and I can’t stop. I need more. I deserve more.
The seventh one is halfway down my throat when I hear heavy footsteps echoing in the hall.
Shit.
I stop mid-bite, contemplating my best options: run and hide in the closet, play dumb and pretend he left it open on purpose, or break down in tears and beg him not to punish me.
“Hello, Sadie Pretty…”
A deep and husky voice—one that sends a warm jolt through every nerve in my body, one that definitely doesn’t belong to the warden—brings my entire world to a halt.
“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you for a long time,” he says. “Turn around for me.”
I obey, slowly turning, and my jaw drops as I take in the full portrait of this man.
His ocean-blue eyes are the kind of beautiful that artists spend their entire lives trying to recreate on canvas, only to eventually settle for a cheap imitation.
His ink-black hair is cut into short, low layers that complement his perfectly chiseled jawline, and I feel the sudden urge to tell him he’s the sexiest man on the planet.
His lips curve into a slow smile as I stare at him, and I almost forget where the hell we are.
I’m too captivated to move, and I can feel ice cream dripping from my lips to my chin.
“Is something wrong back there, Doctor?” The warden's voice floats down the hall. “My favorite inmate didn’t make a run for it, did she?”
“Not at all,” the man answers, keeping his eyes anchored to mine.
Strolling toward me, he stops when he’s too close—when his Italian leather shoes brush against my plastic tennis shoes.
Without saying a word, he extends his hand and presses two fingers under my bottom lip. Then he gently pushes upward, closing my gaping mouth.
My breathing slows at his soft, yet dominant touch.