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 memory surfaces like it's been dragged from deep water.
Yes, my god, I do remember. How could I forget? He was vicious and violent, and he… he saved me. I've thought of him a hundred times since.
But now I'm looking at him, really looking, and I see it. The same massive frame, the same lethal grace. He had a bit more hair then, dark and cropped short, but those eyes… those silver eyes I'd remember anywhere.
“That was you?”
“Aye.”
I shake my head and force myself to breathe. “That doesn't explain this. You don't just kidnap someone because you helped them once.”
He leans forward, draws in a deep breath, his elbows on his knees, and I see his split knuckles up close now, scabbed over, fresh and recent.
“You're not safe here right now. In Ireland, I mean. And I don't know yet what I'm going to do about that, so you're here with me, for now. Because you're safe with me.”
Something in my chest loosens. I swallow hard.
“Safe from what?”
“From people who want to hurt you.”
“Says my kidnapper.”
He blows out a breath, and I catch myself watching the way his chest expands, the way the T-shirt stretches across all that muscle. “I already told you, and you didn’t believe me.”
“Well, that's convenient for you, isn't it?”
He only frowns. “Drink your tea. It's getting cold.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” The words come out sharper than I intended.
Something flickers in his expression, something like… approval. The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize with a start that he's attractive in a brutal, dangerous way I shouldn't be noticing right now.
“There she is,” he murmurs, and his rough voice does something to me that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. “Good girl. Was wondering when you'd show some spine, lass. You're a good girl, but you're no pushover, are you, Bianca?”
Heat floods my face. I don't know if I'm embarrassed or angry or some twisted combination of both.
“You don't know anything about me.”
It's a stupid retaliation because he's proven that he does, in fact, know quite a bit about me.
“Is that right?” he says. There's something chilling in that look of calm on his face, something predatory in the way those silver eyes track my every movement.
“I know you studied history at DCU. I know you work Tuesdays and Thursdays at the coffee shop on Gravel Street, the one with those terrible scones. I know you take the bus home, and you don't have a bodyguard when you should have a fucking team.”
“So it's fine for you to curse but not me?” It feels like a childish deflection, but it's all I've got.
He almost smiles, and the expression transforms his face, softening those brutal features just enough to make him devastatingly handsome. “Fair. I know you bite your thumbnail when you're nervous.” His gaze drops to my hand, and I realize I'm doing it right now.
I snatch my hand away from my mouth.
“I know your favorite color's purple, but the light, pale kind. I know you're shite at poker. I know you laugh at your own jokes before you get to the punchline because you're fuckin' adorable.” He clamps his lips shut as if he didn't mean to say that last bit. “I know you've got a heart for animals, and you fancy yourself in old England with King Arthur sometimes.”
“Fine, I get it.” I don't want to hear any more. It’s creepy, and the room is spinning.
But he doesn't stop, as if he needs to prove a point.
“I know you like cats, and yours is named Lancelot. Even though I hate cats, I know he's your best confidante, so…” He stands up, unfolding that massive frame from the chair, and walks into another room. When he comes back, his tattooed arms are cradling—
“Lancelot!” I blink rapidly in disbelief.
“Aye. Lancelot wanted to come with you, so I said he could. I thought it might give you a little comfort. A little something from home. I thought maybe if you saw I brought your damn cat, you wouldn't be so afraid of me.”
He drops Lancelot in my lap, and his strong, scarred hands are surprisingly gentle. I bury my face in Lancelot's soft fur and will myself not to cry. Lancelot purrs and squalls, as if he wants to let everyone know this is not okay. But he's at least happy to see me.
What kind of kidnapper takes the cat?
“How did you get him here? He scratches other people who try to touch him.”
He shrugs those broad shoulders. “Carried him by the scruff, the way his mother would've, wrapped him in a blanket, then put him in the boot.”
“You put my cat in the boot!”
His eyes almost twinkle at me, and I notice for the first time the laugh lines at the corners, softening that brutal beauty. “He was fine, with plenty of oxygen, though he squalled his damn head off most of the way.” He rubs his hand across the scruff on his jaw. “I just told you a laundry list of things I know about you, and you're worried about your cat in the boot?”