Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
A headache starts to form when I think about how much stuff I have to go over and memorize tonight. It might be hard, but I’m going to get this. I’m not going to give Dawson any reason to put me down. As if he needs one.
Chapter 3
Dawson
Fuck me. What kind of sad son of a bitch would be glad for the screeching of an alarm first thing in the morning?
The sick part, as I catch my breath after slapping the clock to silence it, is knowing I don’t usually need an alarm. It’s rare for me to not be awake long before it goes off—only a very late night or an uncharacteristic illness keeps me from waking up according to my own internal clock.
When my subconscious decides it’s going to throw past horrors at me, it makes sure I stay vulnerable. Asleep. Locked in horror as fresh now as it was that day.
I don’t want to think about that day now, not that I ever do. The memory is never all that far from the back of my mind, like a bony finger tapping at me, making sure I know I’ll never truly be free. Everywhere I go, everything I do, none of it matters on mornings like this when I wake up in a puddle of sweat with a slow, rhythmic creaking sound still echoing in my brain. She was still swinging when I found her.
Enough. Gritting my teeth, I sit up, peeling my overheated skin away from the cold, damp sheets. This is a big day, breaking in my new assistant. I only hope I didn’t make any noise audible from wherever she is. But who am I kidding? She’s probably still in bed, passed out over the materials I needed her to familiarize herself with. A grim smile tugs at the corners of my mouth on my way to the shower when I imagine how she must be cursing me for my cruelty. If she thinks that’s bad, she’s in for a hell of a time.
The fading nightmare washes down the drain along with the suds, and by the time I’m dried off and choosing my suit for the day, it’s nothing more than a blip on the radar. I know by now the only way to shake it off is to focus on even the mundane daily ritual of dressing and grooming. It gives my mind something else to turn to. The one and only time Dad didn’t scoff at the idea of therapy was in the months immediately after that day, and probably only because my nightly screaming annoyed him. Either that, or he was worried the staff would start talking, wondering about me. Regardless, it wasn’t out of concern for me. I know that much. But only the weak will whine and complain about shit like that, and I am anything but weak. I give myself a steady look in the mirror while sliding the knot in my silk tie up to my throat and nod at my reflection.
Time to break in my stepsister. Something else to turn my thoughts away from the ugliness of the past. Anticipation hums in my veins by the time I open my bedroom door.
“How do you like your eggs?” Maggie’s gentle voice floats from the kitchen, and I follow it, curious.
“Scrambled, please. Though I’m a little too nervous to want to eat.” Harper’s shaky admission freezes me on the spot, surprise and confusion fighting for dominance. She’s already awake?
Not only is she awake, she’s seated at the kitchen table, fully dressed and ready for the day.
Her gaze darts up from the tablet balanced on one hand, teeth grazing her plump bottom lip. “Good morning,” she offers, her voice clipped and professional, and not at all the way it sounded when she was talking to Maggie a moment ago.
That’s not what makes my tongue so thick and useless. “It’s an improvement,” I announce, taking in the fitted blouse and pencil skirt she chose for today. She shifts under the weight of my gaze, crossing her legs, set off perfectly by a pair of nude heels. Her neat, low ponytail couldn’t be more different from the bun she wore yesterday. With a little more work, she could almost appear polished.
But to hell with that when sheer hunger awakens low in my belly, like a sleeping serpent stirred to life. It’s going to take every ounce of control to focus on anything but the way her body fills out that skirt and the strain of the buttons holding her blouse closed over those tits. My mouth waters at the sight of them, but rather than bury my face between them like every instinct demands, I settle for taking a seat across from her and accepting the poached eggs and wheat toast Maggie places in front of me.