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)
I stare at the steaming mug. Alright, so if he were going to assault me, would he be making me a cup of tea?
I narrow my eyes at the cup because I can see the name of my favorite tea on the little tag hanging over the edge.
I stare, like it might explode, as he sets it on the table in front of me. Those tattooed fingers release the cup carefully, and I notice the fresh scabs across his knuckles, split and raw. The gesture is almost considerate.
For a second, I can't even process it. I want the damn tea, but what if he's only trying to sweet-talk me and he drugged it? It would be foolish to take anything from him, wouldn't it?
He sighs, and the sound rumbles through his broad chest. “I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca.” Hearing him call me by name makes my stomach flip.
He talks to me as if we're friends, as if he's familiar with me.
I glare at him. I'm generally a happy person, and scowling doesn't come naturally to me. “You didn't tell me how you know my name.”
Something flickers across his face, not quite guilt, but something darker, more complicated. In this light, his features are all hard angles and sharp edges, brutal and beautiful in equal measure.
“Drink your tea, lass, then we'll talk.”
I shake my head. “I don't want it.” My voice comes out stronger than I expected, and I'm proud to say that I don't sound petulant but insistent. “I want to know why you took me, and I want to know who the fuck you are.”
His eyebrows rise slightly, like he's surprised. “Watch your language, lass. You're too pretty a girl to use words like that.”
The irony hits me so hard I almost laugh.
“Watch my…? You kidnapped me.”
“Aye.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and when he does, the muscles around his shoulders bunch, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest. He's not just big, he's powerful, all corded muscle and coiled strength, with eyes that tell me he's not afraid to use it.
“I did take you.” No denial, no justification. Just matter-of-fact, like he's confirming he picked up milk at the shops. “We covered why.”
“You can't just…” I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. He's moving too, not toward me, but sideways, blocking my path with that massive frame, like he doesn't want to hurt me but won't let me leave either. It's subtle and practiced, the movement of someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is.
“Let me go. Marcus will—”
He cuts me off with a scoff. “Marcus will do fuck all.” A muscle tics in his jaw. “Marcus thinks you're on a trip,” he says quietly, his rough voice dropping even lower. “You've asked for some time, and in a bit I'll check your phone to see if he's been gracious enough to grant it or if you'll have to push a bit outside your comfort zone.”
He frowns. “My guess is not so much, but at least he won't come looking for you. Sit down, Bianca.”
“Stop saying my name!”
“No.”
“You don't know me.”
“I do.” He moves to the chair across from the sofa, lowering himself into it with surprising grace for a man so big. The wood creaks under his weight. Those silver eyes pin me in place. “I've known you for a long time now. And the fact that you don't know me doesn't erase that.”
My pulse is hammering in my ears.
“That's ridiculous. I've never seen you before.” It's a test, though, to see what he'll say, because he is somehow… familiar. I just can't place him.
“You have.” His gaze is steady and unwavering, and I notice for the first time that his eyes aren't just gray—they're ringed with a darker charcoal that makes them almost hypnotic. “You just don't remember. And I said sit down. Things will go much better for you if you do what you're told.”
“Is that a threat?”
I'm trying to be brave, but my heart still thumps in my chest. The way he could so easily overpower me and has.
Would he hurt me if I disobeyed?
He gives me a pointed look that sends a shiver down my spine, and I'm not entirely sure it's unwanted. Taking a step toward me, he holds my chin between his fingers, his eyes locked on mine.
“Sit. Down.”
My legs feel unsteady, and I don't want to appear weak in front of him. Sitting feels like giving in, like obeying, like accepting this reality.
But I'm wobbly and hungry, and standing just out of sheer stubbornness doesn't serve me.
So I begrudgingly sit, ignoring the way his low growl of approval makes me feel.
“Six years ago,” he says huskily. He leans back in the chair, and the firelight plays across his tattooed arms, making the Celtic patterns seem to move. “Outside of Tessa's Bistro. There were a couple of lads who came looking for trouble. Tried to take you, didn't they? I sent them on their way.”