Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 745(@200wpm)___ 596(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 745(@200wpm)___ 596(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
I hate the way other men look at her. It triggers every territorial instinct I have when they start sniffing around.
Admittedly, I may have made a few of them shit themselves when they got too close. A little violence and a lingering threat go a long way. Still, on principle, I’d like to choke the life from their eyes.
Letting that thought go for now, I move around her bedroom and look through her things. All her books are special editions of historical romances in various pastel shades. But one title appears in five different versions.
Pride and Prejudice.
Presumably, this is the Mr. Darcy she seems to obsess over in her online reading groups. A flip through the pages confirms it.
I set it aside, making a mental note to take home a copy so I can see what’s so special about this asshole.
Everywhere I look, there’s something quintessentially Gabi. Fashion magazines. Nail polish in every shade of pink that’s ever existed. Tea sets and fancy stationery. One half of her closet is an explosion of feathers, sequins, and pink. The other is all black.
I frown at a skirt the size of a thimble, wondering where she’s worn it and whose eyes I need to cut out.
In another drawer, I find her underwear, identical to the pair I stole.
I’ll never look at cherries the same again.
The blow-dryer in the bathroom switches on, and I wander back to her bed and sit down, propping myself against the headboard. I yank the stuffed teddy bear out of the covers and pose him beside me before I grab her phone from the nightstand.
I already know everything she does on here, but it’s something to pass the time while I wait. When I unlock the screen, I check out her private Instagram page that only her friends know about. The bio reads: Probably overstimulated. Social skills still loading. Control-alt-delete that awkward thing I said.
Scrolling down, I find selfies of her and Beppe, along with pictures of her and her friends eating pastries, drinking mimosas, and celebrating every possible milestone with ice cream. Gabi always gets bubblegum.
In the mix, there are also a few random outfit-of-the-day posts, one of which I’ve burned into memory. She’s wearing a pink plaid skirt, white knee-high socks, and a cardigan. She looks like a geeky little librarian, and I’d give my left testicle to fuck her in that outfit just once.
I mutter a low curse as I glance down at my pants. Now I’ve got a goddamned hard-on.
The blow-dryer in the bathroom switches off. With the time I have left, I open her camera app and take a selfie in her bed, leaving it in her gallery.
I toss the phone back onto the nightstand. A second later, the bathroom door swings open, and Gabi walks out.
When she sees me sitting on her bed in the black balaclava, she freezes.
Her eyes wander over me in search of something familiar, but there’s nothing for her to see. A polycarbonate visor obscures my eyes beneath the mask, seamless and reflective, like the faceplate of a motorcycle helmet.
“Eros?” she squeaks.
“Expecting any other masked men in your bedroom?”
The modulated voice draws a shaky exhalation from her chest.
She lingers there, way too far out of reach for my liking, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of shorts and half a top with a little bow on the front.
“Scared of me, little shark?”
She hesitates, long enough for me to consider a hundred different ways to tell her I’m not a complete psychopath. But also—don’t fall in love with me. Just in case.
“Should I be?” she asks.
If I were being honest, I’d tell her yes. Not because I have bad intentions, but because I can’t guarantee anything when I lose control. Over the years, the episodes have decreased, but I’ll never eliminate them entirely. It’s impossible to predict what could set me off, and being alone with Gabi is a risk I shouldn’t be taking. But I can’t fucking stop myself.
“Would it make a difference if I told you that I never want to hurt you?”
She thinks about it and takes a tentative step forward. “How did you get in here?”
“I have my ways.”
“Are those the same ways that helped you figure out where I was the other night and how to get back to the penthouse? Or what I order at my favorite bakery?”
“Possibly.” I shrug.
“So you are stalking me?”
“I prefer the phrase courting you from afar. It sounds less creepy.”
That cracks a smile from her, and I think we might be getting somewhere. She bites her lip as her eyes roam the length of me—from my black hoodie all the way down to my boots.
“Did you kill them?” She swallows.
I scoot to the edge of the bed and swing my legs over the side. “Come here.”
When she obeys me, it sends a shot of need straight to my dick.