Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
His lips press together. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I get the sense he suspects something is going on, but he can’t figure out what yet.
He’s suspicious, and that’s bad.
“One more week,” he says finally. “No more delays. No more shooting my men. No more bullshit. You know the consequences of failing the Black Mantis. I don’t need to remind you.”
I glare at him. “One week isn’t much.”
“It’s all I’m willing to give.” He taps the driver on the shoulder, and the man pulls over.
The gun remains aimed at my skull.
“Then I hope our next conversation is more pleasant than this one.” I push open the door.
“A word of warning.” Jeremy leans across the back seat. “Don’t shoot my tails again. Whatever you’re up to, I’m going to find out. I’ll be seeing you soon. And tell that pretty wife of yours that I said hello.”
They drive off, leaving me alone on some random Baltimore street corner. I watch the car disappear and feel my stomach sinking deep into my knees.
He knows something’s going on. His comment about Riley at the very end was deliberate.
The fucker knows, and he’s using her to threaten me.
I control my rage. I can’t do anything impulsive again. That nearly got me into some serious trouble. If Fong didn’t want the watch back so badly, I’d probably have a bullet in my head right now, but he’s desperate enough to overlook one ruined knee if it means getting Mantis’s money back.
One week to go.
Chapter 30
Riley
I’m tired of looking at bare white walls and piles of magazines nobody ever reads.
This is my house, right? I should be allowed to make sweeping changes if I want to.
Which is how I justify myself when I go into an impulsive redecorating frenzy.
I use a fancy metal credit card Alexan gave me to order a bunch of home goods on local courier delivery. It’s obscenely expensive, but he never gave me a limit. And besides, when I get like this, there’s no stopping me.
When cute baskets, comfy blankets, more throw pillows than is reasonably healthy, and a bunch of pretty art start showing up, I get to work. Half of his stuff gets either taken down and piled in a corner or stacked up against a wall in the basement. I’m tempted to paint the whole place, but I don’t have time for that.
Instead, I drape it in my personality. I’m going for cozy chic, which involves a lot of pastels and fluffy things. I yank down his curtains and hang very beautiful lavender drapes. I replace his coffee table with this gorgeous glass and gold-edged piece I find for sale at a local shop nearby. I get flowers, big potted plants, and a bunch of little decorative animal statues.
Basically, I lose my damn mind for about six hours.
I’m starting on the second floor when the front door opens. It’s like I’m trapped in a fever dream, and only the sudden noise of Alexan coming home jars me awake. I stand there slack-jawed, and it’s only as he gets deeper into the house that it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, I went a little bit too far.
“What the hell?” I hear the plain shock in his voice as I hurry downstairs.
“It’s not what it looks like.” I don’t even know why I say it because obviously, it’s exactly what it looks like.
He’s standing at the kitchen island and staring out at the chaos of the living room. I can admit that redecorating hasn’t been a smooth process. The place is nearly a wreck. There’s packing paper and boxes tossed around and stuff covering every possible surface. It looks like Ikea had a baby with Free People and the resulting demon spawn puked all over the house.
“What did you do?” he asks, turning toward me slowly.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I made some minor changes.”
“Minor?” He gestures around him like that somehow can encompass the insanity. “This is minor?”
“Look, I know I might’ve gone a little too far. It’s just, earlier I got the bug and I just—”
“And you just ripped my house apart.”
I pause for a second. I’m about to apologize more, but something about that bugs me. “Our house,” I correct.
His jaw ticks in frustration. “Does it matter? This point is—”
“No, Alexan, seriously.” I step toward him, hands on my hips. “Our house. I want to see you say it.”
His expression hardens. “I don’t need to.”
“But now I feel like you really do.”
“I’ve done nothing but welcome you here. I don’t need to say anything in my defense. I’m not the one on trial here.”
“That’s what this is? You’re having a trial for me?”
“No, it’s just an expression.”
“An expression you used.” I pick up a wooden elephant. “I get it, this isn’t your taste, but it’s mine. And I live here now, right?”