Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“I don’t.” I haven’t touched the food, and I don’t intend to just yet.
He merely glances up at me and continues cutting his salmon and eating small bites. “You might not now, but you will, eventually.”
“I doubt it,” I say, looking away.
“Kitten,” he says, though I ignore him. “I’ll tell you now, I’ll never, ever, drug you and use you like that. That’s not how I choose to live.”
“Then how do you choose to live?” I scoff, raising a brow at him.
“With you. Being fully present. Choosing me. Choosing … desire,” he replies, and he sticks another piece of salmon into his mouth, running his tongue along the tines of the fork like he’s showing me what I’m missing.
“Not a chance.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says, and he clears his throat. “Now eat your food before it gets cold.” He looks at me for a second. “That’s not a request.”
I think about it for a few more seconds. Maybe he’s right. I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would go behind anyone’s back and betray them. He wants to face things head-on, including me. He likes the challenge. To overpower me and win. That’s what gets him excited.
So I grab the knife and cut off the piece of chicken, placing it on my plate before gently spearing a piece with my fork and putting it in my mouth. It’s delicious, well-seasoned, and it makes me hunger for more, but I have to control myself and show Marcello I’m not bothered by my own needs.
“Happy now?” I muse to rub it in that he’s forcing me.
“Are you asking me because you want to know the truth or because you hope I lie?” he asks, putting down his fork.
“Amuse me,” I reply. If he wants a game, he can get one. “It’s not like you’re going to tell me the truth, even if I asked for it, am I right?”
He smirks again. “You’re a spicy kitten, aren’t you?” He picks up some green veggies and places them on his plate. “Fine, ask away.”
“How do I know you won’t lie?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You just have to trust me, I guess.” Right as he’s about to put more food in his mouth, he pauses and lowers his fork again. “You know what? Let’s play a game. Truth or dare. You ask me a question, I ask you.” He grabs two tiny glasses and scoots one over to me. “If you don’t answer, you take a shot.”
He snaps his fingers. Two men are back with two giant bottles of whiskey, each one placed before us, the shot glasses filled to the brim.
Getting drunk in front of this man could be dangerous. But I wouldn’t be Harper if I didn’t give myself wholeheartedly into weeding out the truth among the lies.
So I say, “Fine. Bring it.”
He grins. “I like your enthusiasm. I’ll let you go first.”
“Did you know I was going to be sold on that boat the night you left me stranded in that club?” I ask.
He cocks his head, touching the glass as though he means to take a sip. Instead, his lips part. “No. The Russians bringing you there was their choice. Me being there was mine. But I never expected to find you on the boat. I thought you escaped the club.”
“You thought wrong,” I hiss.
“My turn,” he says, ignoring my rage. “Did you follow me to that club because you knew who I was?”
If I answer that, I’ll blow my entire investigation. So I take the shot instead. It’s hot and burns in my chest, and I can barely keep it down, but still, I manage.
Marcello laughs and taps the table, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, kitten, you disappoint me.”
I smack the glass on the table and say, “My turn. Did you buy me for your own pleasure instead of to save me from the Russians?”
His jaw tightens, and he picks up the glass and chugs it down in one go, unfazed.
“Kitten, did you come for me because you enjoyed it?”
I grind my teeth. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of my own body’s betrayal. So I take the shot again. And it’s still horrible, but better than seeing the smirk on his face if I told him he was right.
I need to steer this conversation in a different direction.
“Did you recognize me when you first saw me in that club?” I ask.
His jaw tightens, and his body freezes. Seconds feel like minutes. He takes another shot.
Bastard.
“Tell me, kitten … do you have a problem with me?”
I don’t answer. I take another shot even though I can feel myself getting drunker by the second.
He smiles viciously as if the amount of alcohol in his blood doesn’t even faze him.
I’m certain my next question will. In fact, I’m pretty sure it will shock him to his core. “Did you kill my parents?”