Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
The cabin smells like pine and wood smoke. The space is open-plan—a kitchen along one wall, all simple wood cabinets and butcher-block counters, and this sitting area with a massive stone fireplace crackling with low flames. There's a dining table between the two spaces, solid and scarred with age. The furniture is sparse but nice. The leather sofa I'm sitting on is worn soft with use, with wool blankets in deep greens and grays draped over the back. Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with books that look well-read.
I can like any place lined with books…
No. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right.
I’m looking for the layout, not making myself at home.
The stone walls are rough-hewn, the kind that have been here for ages, and exposed beams cross the ceiling overhead.
It's surprisingly cozy for a… prison.
Through the kitchen, I can see a back door and a hallway leading to what must be bedrooms. The windows are small, deep-set in the thick stone walls, showing nothing but darkness and the occasional glimpse of trees pressing close.
There's no television that I can see. No hum of electronics. Just the fire, the books, and the wilderness surrounding us.
Under normal circumstances, it would thrill me. It's a place out of one of my dreamlands, where I would curl up by the fire with my book and a hot cup of tea and read for hours on end.
Only, this is no fairy tale.
My hands won't stop shaking. I've tucked them under my thighs on this soft leather sofa, but it doesn't help. The tremors work their way up my arms, into my shoulders, until my whole body feels like it's vibrating at a frequency only I can hear.
And I hate it. I hate it so much. I want to be calm and in charge, but how can I?
He drugged me. I'm kidnapped. What is he going to do with me? Part of me hopes that if he were going to assault me, he already would have.
But it doesn't seem like that's his plan. I don't know how to describe how he looks at me, but it's… believable that he won't hurt me.
I look out the windows again. It's definitely not the time to escape unless I like wandering around the woods for hours on end with no hope in sight.
No, I'll have to at least wait until daylight to see if I can get any idea of where I am. If I can get away. If I can get my phone…
I hear a door opening and closing, followed by the sound of running water in the loo. Civilized sounds, normal sounds, sounds that don't belong to a man who just drugged me, kidnapped me, and drove me to the middle of nowhere.
Marcus is going to lose his damn mind.
As soon as I have that thought, I wonder… would he? Will he, really?
The thought crashes through me like a wave, and I have to press my palms against my mouth to keep from making a sound. My father would have torn Dublin apart looking for me. And my mother…
My eyes burn, but I won't cry. I won't. I am not the type to fall apart.
I'm a good girl who keeps it together, who follows the rules, who does what she's told.
But dammit, I've been doing what I'm told my whole life, and look where it's gotten me.
I swallow hard when I hear footsteps. I straighten, pull my hands from under my legs, even though they're still shaking, and when he rounds the corner, I make myself look at him.
He's massive. I clocked that straight away when he grabbed me, but here in the dim lamplight of this small room, he seems even larger. His shaved head gleams in the firelight, and his silver-gray eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The scar through his eyebrow is more visible now, a pale line that pulls slightly when his expression shifts, giving him a dangerous edge that shouldn't be attractive but somehow… is.
His shoulders are so broad they fill the doorway, blocking any chance of escape. The black T-shirt he's wearing does nothing to hide the muscle underneath—the kind that comes from hurting people, not from posing in mirrors. Both arms are covered in tattoos, dark Celtic knots that wind down to knuckles that are split and scarred. When he shifts his weight, every movement is controlled. Precise. Like he's done this before.
He's holding a steaming mug that looks almost comically small in his enormous hands.
“Cup of tea, lass? My mother always says it helps to calm nerves, and you look like you need calming.” He shrugs, and the movement makes his shoulders flex in a way that has no business being distracting. “Figured you might want some.”
His voice is rough, gravelly, like maybe he doesn't speak that much.