Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“I know what you think you were supposed to be doing,” he cuts me off. “But it’s bullshit. It’s not the truth at all.”
“You don’t know anything!” I scream, moving toward the door with the confidence of a woman free to walk through it, but he blocks me off completely by putting his big, intimidating body in my way.
I shift on my feet and head toward the window. I try to pull it up, and when it doesn’t budge, I look for a latch or a switch, but there’s none to be found. Still, I yank harder on it, as if maybe I can just tear the damn thing from the wall.
But when nothing happens, I turn to face him again. He’s infuriatingly calm, like he didn’t just kidnap me after committing murder.
“You are insane!” I spit, turning back toward him. “This is psychotic! You are psychotic! You can’t just keep me here against my will!”
He doesn’t argue; he doesn’t need to. I’m locked in, and even if I weren’t, he’s bigger and faster and stronger. I don’t stand a chance, and he knows it. Instead, he turns toward the closet and pulls out a fresh shirt. He tosses it on the bed and starts unbuttoning his flannel, and a new level of panic sets in. Not only is he keeping me here, but he also seems to be keeping himself here too.
With him actively undressing, my earlier worst-case scenario comes into sharper focus.
“Excuse me?” I blink what feels like a thousand times, trying to sound more outraged than scared. “What are you doing?”
“Changing my shirt.” As he peels it off, I finally notice the dark stains across the fabric.
I don’t know if it’s blood or mud from my parents’ yard, but either way, the reason he’s covered in it is the same—he killed two freaking men in my driveway.
He tosses the shirt into the hamper and reaches for the clean one on the bed.
My eyes move from his face to his bare chest, and I instantly regret it. Thick but lean muscles sit beneath tanned skin, and every movement he makes showcases a flex of strength and power. It’s no wonder he was able to kill people. It’s no wonder he was able to carry me around like a sack of potatoes. It’s no freaking wonder.
But my stupid eyes keep looking at him, taking in the way his biceps curl as he pulls his shirt over his head and catching the final sight of the thick V muscle that starts at his hips and disappears beneath his jeans.
Heat blooms low in my stomach before I can stop it.
No, Blair. Absolutely not. He is a murderer! A freaking kidnapper!
“You’re an insane person,” I snap, because anger is safer than acknowledging what just happened inside me. “You realize that, right? Everything you’ve done today is a serious crime!”
“I’m not insane,” he says, and it’s downright confusing how calm and controlled he appears. “But I can understand why you’d think that right now. You’ve been lied to and robbed of half the story, and everything about the way we’ve had to start this relationship lowers your trust.”
This relationship? He must be joking. I don’t need him understanding me. I don’t need him to earn my trust. I need him to let me go.
If I can make it back to my parents’ house soon, I can call Holland and find another way to get to New York, where Damien Snow is waiting for me. The chances were high that he could’ve chosen me as his mate and set me up for life.
And instead, I’m here. In this filthy, simple cabin with an insane but handsome man.
A man who’s ruined everything.
My feet are moving before my brain can catch up with what I’m doing. Between one blink and the next, I’m standing right in front of him, and then, I slap him straight across the face as hard as I can.
The crack echoes off the walls of the small bedroom, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.
And my palm burns like I just attempted to hit a freaking statue.
“I hate you!” I push against his chest with both hands. “You’ve ruined my life!” I shove him again and again and again, but nothing happens. He doesn’t shift his balance, doesn’t take a step back. He just stands there, both feet steady on the ground, gaze squarely on me.
His eyes are an incredible shade of green, but for the briefest second, they showcase a violet undertone.
Déjà vu hits me like a truck, and a vision of my childhood doll fills my head again. My breath catches, but I force the bubbling thoughts out of my head.
But that memory isn’t the only one that wants to come to the surface out of the now open hatch. Visuals of the men in my driveway and how fast they went from standing to lifeless on the ground. Him standing over them without so much as a labored breath. His eyes cutting to me.