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)
“So, you’re just going to take me because I’m concerned for them?”
“No, I’m going to take you because you asked so nicely,” I say with a wide, sarcastic smile. I open the door and gesture for her to walk out ahead of me.
She studies me, obviously not trusting me, but is smart enough not to push it. She walks out of the bedroom.
I follow her out, sliding one hand beneath the mass of long, dark hair and wrapping it around the back of her neck. She stiffens and I wonder if it’s my touch or the reminder that we have unfinished business regarding those scars.
“Where’s your brother?” she asks once we reach the door.
I take one of my coats and drape it over her shoulders. It hangs all the way to the floor. I pull another one on myself. The soldier at the door opens it. The air is bracing, sun bright on the freshly fallen snow. A path to the SUV has been cleared, but Allegra’s ballet slippers look like just that, slippers. “Stepbrother,” I say, and scoop her up.
She yelps, hands closing on my shoulders, surprised, then, when she realizes she’s holding on to me, she fights to get free. “What are you doing?”
“Be still.” I look down at her upturned face, her fire eyes, the oval of her angry little mouth. I tighten my hold and carry her to the waiting SUV. Enzo opens the back door, and I slide Allegra in then follow. She quickly scoots to the opposite side, tugging my coat tighter around herself.
“What the hell was that?” she demands.
The soldier closes my door and climbs into the passenger seat. “You’re wearing ballet slippers. Didn’t think you’d want to land on your ass first thing this morning.”
I reach across her and she grips my forearm, pressing her back into the seat. I note the flush of her cheeks and grin as I draw the seatbelt across her chest and click it into place before sitting back myself.
“Do I make you nervous, Moth? Or do you like me being so close?”
She clears her throat, shakes her head. I imagine she hasn’t had much experience with men, but surely some. “I am capable of walking, and I can certainly buckle my own seatbelt.”
She looks down at her feet clad in those ridiculous shoes. Are they even considered shoes? Why does women’s footwear make no sense?
“We’re not blood,” I say, sitting back and buckling my seatbelt as we pull out, one SUV ahead of us and one behind.
“What?”
“Jethro. My father is married to his mother, but we’re not blood.” I’m not sure why I’m explaining this to her.
“Oh. Is your father alive then?”
I nod once.
“Did he send you last night?”
“Excuse me?”
Her forehead furrows and I can tell she’s considering whether or not to continue. “My father had mentioned once that he was sick, so I thought he’d died since it was you who came to our house, but you said he is married to Jethro’s mother. Not was.”
“He’s alive.”
“He can’t be that old.”
“He’s not.”
“What’s your background anyway?”
“Pardon?”
“Your coloring and your eyes.”
I raise my eyebrows as I watch that flush creep up her neck. She’s embarrassed to have asked. I grin. I’ll exploit that.
“Little Moth, do you find me pretty to look at?” I taunt.
She turns away, face bright red now. “The combination is unusual. That’s all. If you’re going to be a jerk, then never mind. Forget I asked.”
I chuckle, reach out to lift a lock of wavy hair.
She slaps my hand away. I lean closer, pick up the smell of my bodywash on her. I like it. I smile. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, Little Moth,” I whisper. “Your wet pussy gave you away last night.”
She turns to shove me, and I laugh outright. “You’re such an asshole, you know that?” she asks.
“I do so I’m going to let that one go,” I say, smiling wide. “Don’t worry, I find you pretty to look at too.” I wink.
“That’s not why… I mean…” She’s clearly flustered. Unused to compliments, I guess. “I wouldn’t care if you thought I was a hag.” She turns away again, clearly uncomfortable and unsure how to handle me. I feel a small pang of guilt. I know how sheltered her father kept her. She’s unused to men.
“My father is Italian, and my mother was Syrian. She passed away a very long time ago,” I give her, sitting back in my seat. I don’t tell her I never got to meet my mother. Never got to hear her voice or see her face. I don’t tell her I’m the reason she’s dead.
The way she looks at me shifts. I turn my gaze out the window as the vehicles pull off the property. I’m about to tell her I don’t need her pity when she speaks.