Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
And I thought the fact that the man I’m falling in love with hunts people for sport was my biggest problem. This is happening on top of homicidal mayhem? And he didn’t even tell me? If the blond little shit knows, Damen must as well!
“I… the horse is making me feel nauseous,” I whisper and take my foot out of the stirrup, grabbing the saddle as I swing my leg over the beast’s hindquarters, and then let go. My other leg is briefly stuck in the other stirrup, and for a moment I fear I might land under Bessie’s hoofs in the slowest trampling in history of horse-riding accidents, but I manage to free myself and tumble into the snow.
Aspen scowls with a low hiss. “Ayayay... I fucked up with all this, didn’t I? Honestly, maybe Damen picked the wrong person to calm you down, so it’s kinda his fault, isn’t it?”
I pick myself up in frustration and shake snow off my pants and coat. “Yeah, it is. It’s all his fucking fault!” I have to take a deep breath. “Excuse me as I go rethink my life choices,” I add in a voice dripping with sarcasm and stomp off toward the house.
“So… should I, like, take care of Bessie?” Aspen yells after me, but I leave that up to him.
I really am getting nauseated now. My… what? He’s not my husband. We’re not even fucking. But let’s call him man-I-was-considering-fucking-again. So this man, Damen Van der Horn, mon chéri, is so excited to hunt people on Christmas Day that he roped me into a fake marriage, and it slipped his mind to tell me what I’m in for.
If he’s this much of a psycho, why would I believe anything he’s said to me? Maybe he’s just annoyed he doesn’t get to fuck me anymore, but since he doesn’t like to be rapey, he’s trying to seduce me instead. All in a cold and calculated plan to… to what?
I’m at a loss.
I only stop to hyperventilate when I reach one of the many bathrooms in the mansion.
This is so fucked up.
I clench my hands on the sink and face myself in the mirror.
“You are dumb,” I whisper to my reflection, “and gullible. You need to know this if you’re to survive the next few days. Without this self-awareness, you will fall into another liar’s bed. He will fuck you. You will fall in love with him. You will excuse everything he says or does, and then, he might just kill you. Understand?” I poke the mirror with a sob. “Do not fall for his lies.”
I’m so exhausted with my own tirade I slide to the floor in the corner and cry in peace where no one can find me.
I don’t want any of this to be true. I want Damen to be my dark Prince Charming, and sweep me off my feet. I want to be his baby boy, loved and protected, taken care of. I was almost ready to trust a man again.
But instead, I had to put my trust in the biggest walking red flag I’ve ever seen. The guy abducted me, for fucks sake, and I conveniently forgot that for la petite mort.
Chapter 17
Damen
Aspen was the worst fucking choice for Killian’s minder. A kid with little life experience, spoiled to boot, brash, and unable to even get lunch without the help of a professional chef, wasn’t the right person for the job. I thought that as young and brainless, he wouldn’t meddle the way my sister or her husband could. I only meant for him to lead Killian back home.
Whatever confidence I had in that decision originally was gone the moment I saw Aspen ride toward me with the same expression Alexandra’s son had last year when he used a whole bottle of her favorite artisanal perfume on their dog. And when my cousin told me what happened, my jaw kept dropping.
I fucked up.
I really did.
To make matters worse, Corvus, out of all people, was around for Aspen’s confession, and just happened to casually mention Clara, Uncle Roger’s first wife. On finding out about the hunt, she’d tried to run away on horseback, and weeks later her body was found frozen in the woods.
So excuse me for getting twitchy when the app I use to track Kill reveals that he’s back in the stables after visiting our bedroom. He’s probably packed his things and is about to make a run for it.
Over my dead body.
So maybe I should have told him about the hunt in more detail, but this feels like a slight. Couldn’t he have come to me about the matter first? I’ve never been this honest with anybody before, and he throws salt on my raw insides?
I can’t let him leave me over this.
Conflicting emotions—anger, sadness, and guilt—buzz inside me so violently I’m feeling a bit faint by the time I ride into the stables, leaning down to avoid hitting my head on the beams supporting the ceiling. Renoir fidgets under me, but all I care about is the lone figure I see hiding behind a support beam by Bessie’s stall.