Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
If she doesn’t stop looking at him like that, we’ll have a serious fucking problem. Like an unidentifiable dead body.
Fuck. Why do I even care who he meets and how they look at him? Or how he speaks so low, I can’t hear anything.
I throw open my notebook and slide my pen back and forth so I don’t start biting my goddamn fingers.
Because he hasn’t looked away from her.
Not even once.
I pull out my phone and click on the conversation with him.
Me
What’s the meaning of this?
He picks up his phone from the table, glances at it, without a change in expression, then puts it back down—on its face.
That motherfucker—
I release a long breath. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter, and the woman definitely doesn’t matter.
Why am I getting worked up about this?
My fingers fly over the phone as Morgan grabs onto my arm, saying shit about being the only one for her, but I’m barely listening.
If you don’t lose her in the next five minutes…
I delete the text and turn off my screen. I’m sounding desperate. Almost as if I’m…
Fuck.
I lift my head and see it. In Zara’s eyes as Morgan kisses my jaw, my cheek, biting and flirting and getting her fucking germs all over me. Just a small distraction, and she’s turning horny for no reason.
But it’s not her that matters. It’s Zara and how she glares at me, then lowers her head and clears her throat, after being caught being jealous in full HD.
Is that what I look like?
Fuck no. I don’t care enough about that motherfucker to be jealous.
I push Morgan off me—a reminder to get sanitized—and smile. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’m getting a bit of a headache. I’m leaving.”
On my way out, I throw one last glimpse at Kayden, and he’s smiling at something she said.
He never shows me that soft smile. It’s always malicious or mocking.
As I walk toward my car, I type.
You have half an hour. If you don’t show up at your place, I’ll hunt you the fuck down.
17
GARETH
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve driven to his place.
Maybe I should’ve told him not to show up with her.
I punch in the code, narrowing my eyes. If he has the audacity to bring her, he can’t blame me for whatever fuckery my brain cooks up in retaliation.
With a large sigh, I head to the kitchen for a drink and pause at the fridge. There are three packs of organic strawberries, and a large bowl of the cut fruit sits in the middle, neatly covered.
He did this?
Why the fuck would he?
Whatever. I pull it out and nearly demolish the whole thing while obsessing over the clock.
Five minutes left.
Unless he’s still with her. Or, worse, went to her place.
My jaw tightens, and I push the bowl away, my fingers brushing the Taser in my jacket. It’s a new one since the asshole confiscated my last one. And my knife.
He’s ten fucking minutes late.
I’m pacing now, my mind racing with options.
If he went to her place, I might have to use the guards to try and locate her. But that’ll definitely get back to Jeremy, and he’s already been giving me suspicious looks. But at least Kill is so preoccupied with Glyn, he barely pays any attention to me.
I’ll deal with him later. First, I have to find that bastard before he screws something up.
It’s totally about protecting the woman from his ruthless way of having sex. She should thank me for being a goddamn Good Samaritan.
The door lock clicks, and I freeze, every nerve on edge.
Then I move, sliding behind the door, my back to the wall, knife in hand.
Relief hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s twisted and unnerving, mixing with this bubbling anticipation.
My breaths come in and out in deep, quick succession, and while my hand around the knife is steady, my palm is clammy.
It’s contagious—these mixed feelings whirling through me.
A sense of excitement.
A touch of malice.
The door opens painfully slowly, and he steps inside, all deliberate movements and irritating calmness.
There he is, the bastard.
Clad in a trench coat and a cashmere scarf, hair ruffled by the wind, cheeks flushed red.
As soon as he turns around to close the door, I pounce.
I slam him against the door, gripping his nape and pressing the knife to his pulse point. The impact rattles the frame, but he doesn’t even flinch.
The scent of wood and amber hits me like a fucking drug, and I can’t help sniffing him.
Why does he smell so good?
Heat radiates from him, the warmth of his hard back muscles pressing into my chest as I lean in closer. Every ridge of his defined physique is a sharp outline, and I feel each one against me as if his body is a map I can't stop tracing.
Exploring.
Dismantling to pieces.
His firmness, his strength, his steady breathing is all I can focus on as it drowns me deeper.