Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
If I could stop myself from looking, I would. But I can’t. Only her calves are showing, the hem of the skirt sits just below the knee, but it’s enough for a flash of desire to smolder inside me. A simple, human reaction I immediately compartmentalize.
She sighs at my request, and when I drag my eyes up from her legs to her face, I find her looking out the window at the blur of guardrails and trees flashing by, her profile sharp against the glass.
“All right,” she says. Reluctantly, I can tell. She turns to face me, a strand of dark hair falling across her cheek. “I’ll play.”
If I were her, I would ask questions about this game first. Questions like, “Will I earn a reward if I play?” or “What will it cost me if I don’t?” Because I can already tell, she doesn’t want to play a game with me. She’s too smart not to recognize this for what it is—an extraction technique dressed up as entertainment.
Newsflash, Emmaleen. You’ve been playing a game with me since that night you broke a thousand dollars of crystal.
But Lie, Lie, Truth is a game of secrets. And she wants nothing more than to keep hers that way. I can see it in the tightness around her eyes, the careful neutrality of her expression as she meets my gaze like an equal.
It occurs to me now that I haven’t done a background check on her.
Why?
Well, I know why. Before she came down my steps, she was nobody. Inconsequential. A temporary distraction not worth the twenty minutes it would take to do a thorough check.
Now she’s occupying a space in my head that hasn’t seen the light of day since I was eight. The space of curiosity. The space of wonder. The space of… danger.
Not the kind that ends with blood on marble or bones in a field—those I can manage.
This is subtler. Quieter.
The kind that rearranges priorities.
The kind that makes a man forget to finish the job because he’s too busy trying to understand the reason she smiles when she should be afraid.
Or maybe it’s the other way around? Maybe it’s me who should be afraid?
She clears her throat, obviously uncomfortable with my prolonged staring and silence.
It snaps me out of the introspection and back to the game.
She’s waiting for me to begin. I consider what to offer. I have plenty of secrets of my own. Some more important than others. The trick is choosing one that elevates my authority in her mind mixed in with a calculated vulnerability that creates the illusion of trust.
That’s the point, after all.
My authority over her. She’s mine. Not forever, that’s stupid. But for now.
And I want her to not just know it, but embrace it.
“I hiked the Appalachian Trail alone for three months when I was sixteen.”
She looks at me. Eyebrows furrowed. Probably trying to picture me wearing hiking boots and carrying a backpack. The image doesn’t compute with what she knows of me.
Then she laughs, a small sound that seems to surprise even her, quickly stifled behind pressed lips.
“I trained a tiger to shake hands like a dog.”
Her expression switches, her nose crinkling up in what appears to be genuine amusement. But she’s smiling now, the tension in her shoulders easing fractionally. The game is working already, creating the illusion of normalcy between us.
“I shot someone when I was eight.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. I can see the calculations happening behind those pale green eyes, the way they narrow slightly at the corners as she evaluates each statement. Her fingers twist together in her lap, a small nervous movement she probably doesn’t realize she’s making. She’s analyzing the probability curves of each statement with methodical precision, weighing the hiking story against the tiger training against the violence. The silence stretches between us, filled only with the purr of the Aventador’s engine as we cruise down the highway toward Pittsburgh.
I don’t rush her. This is part of the game too—letting her think, letting her believe she has all the time in the world to make her choice. The matte black interior of the Lamborghini creates an intimate cocoon around us, the tinted windows shutting out the world while containing our private exchange. Her breathing has slowed, become more deliberate as she considers each possibility, mentally testing them against what little she knows of me.
A slight furrow appears between her brows as she tilts her head, the sunlight filtering through the windshield highlighting those scattered freckles across her nose. She tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, a gesture that seems unconscious, vulnerable.
“The third one,” she says finally, the words emerging with quiet certainty. Her eyes meet mine directly, unflinching in their assessment. “You shot someone when you were eight.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, neither accusation nor question—just a simple statement of fact she’s somehow extracted from my carefully constructed game. Her posture shifts slightly, shoulders squaring as if bracing for my reaction, but there’s no fear in her expression, only a calm, analytical curiosity.