Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
He turns back to the wall of photographs, peers closer at the one in the center. It’s a photo from two summers ago. We’re all in it, Michael, Dad and I along with Malek and his kids, Amal and Daniel. We’re all wearing white and we’re all smiling but I remember that day. How forced it all felt except for Daniel, who is laughing outright, but he was three at the time.
The man returns his intent gaze to me. “Allegra.”
How does he know my name? “You’re not supposed to be in here,” I repeat with more force.
“So you’ve said.” He finishes his whiskey, sets his glass down. It’s my father’s glass. My father’s whiskey. “A bit soon after Daddy’s death for a party, isn’t it?” he says with an air of arrogant assholery. I don’t like the way he says Daddy or the way he says Daddy’s death. My gaze narrows and I look closer at this stranger who has invaded this private place.
“Who the hell are you?” How do you know us I want to ask but don’t. “What are you doing in here?”
One corner of his mouth curves upward into a smirk like this just got interesting. In three long strides, he crosses the room too fast for me to move, to give myself space. Room to breathe.
“Little Moth,” he says. “Let me see your eyes.”
Without waiting, and without my permission, he reaches to push the butterfly mask to the top of my head and when skin touches skin, there’s a spark. I gasp and he stops. Did he feel that? It was electric.
“Better,” he says casually, making me doubt whether he felt anything at all.
I have to crane my neck to look up at him. In my ballet flats, the top of my head barely comes to his chin. He’s maybe in his late twenties, but he speaks with the same authority my father used to. The same confidence of a much older man. He manages to pin me utterly to the spot with just his gaze. His dark hair is pushed back from his face. Stubble shadows the carved line of his jaw. And those cobalt eyes, they don’t belong. They’re too beautiful. Too distracting.
Too deceptive.
This man is as brutal as he is beautiful. He’s dangerous. I have no doubt of that. Hell, I feel it in my bones.
As if reading my mind, his eyes narrow and he smiles. His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips, lower to the swell of my breasts and I’m very aware of how ragged my breaths are, how my heart is racing.
As if to show me he, too, knows, he brushes his knuckles over that racing pulse on my neck.
Again, I feel that electricity. A surge of it. My mouth goes dry as a desert and I want to move, to get away. To run out of this room. But I can’t. I don’t have command of my legs.
“Pretty Little Moth.”
“Butterfly,” I correct, my voice betraying my fear.
“Are you afraid of me, Little Moth?”
I shake my head slowly.
He smirks. He knows I’m lying. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, those knuckles moving along my collarbone, making me shudder.
Over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of a photo of dad and I in the backyard standing in the snow barbecuing. He never cared how cold it was. If my father were alive, this man would not be in here. If my father were alive, he’d have this man dragged out of the house and beaten for daring to come so close to me. To touch me.
If my father were alive, he’d have his man brutally killed.
I remind myself of those things. I remind myself of who I am, and I steel my spine. I force my legs to move and step backward.
“I asked you a question. What the hell are you doing in here?” I ask with an authority that would make my father proud.
His mouth moves into a wide, satisfied smile now. He checks his watch, then casually slides his hand into his pocket. He’s so relaxed. So unconcerned. The movement pushes his jacket back and I glimpse the holster of a gun, the glint of metal. I wonder if he did it to show me. To let me know he’s armed.
This man, this stranger, has come into our home armed.
If my father were here, my mind starts again, but I stop the narrative.
My father isn’t here. He will never be here again.
“Get out,” I command him.
Again, the raising of an eyebrow, this time in clear amusement. He has no intention of leaving.
“As enjoyable as you are, Little Moth, I have business with your brother.”
I’m about to ask what the hell he’s talking about but before I can say anything, the door opens, and I turn to find two men I don’t know walking inside. They, too, are big, but have a different air about them than my stranger. These two are soldiers. Men who do what they’re told.