Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Do you like your portrait?” I ask, my voice smooth.
Her eyes flick to the massive canvas hanging above the fireplace. The shift in her expression is immediate. Her shoulders stiffen, her earlier ease evaporates into tension. Perfect. Just what I wanted, I tell myself.
Her gaze lingers on the portrait as though she’s trying to make sense of it, to find something polite to say about the woman staring back at her from the golden throne. I watch her intently, savoring the discomfort that radiates from her like heat from a flame.
Finally, she speaks, her voice soft and neutral. “It’s an interesting painting.”
“That’s all you have to say? Interesting?”
She tears her eyes away from the painting and looks at me. There’s no anger in her gaze, no defiance—just exhaustion, like she’s too tired to fight. “What do you want me to say, Earl? That I hate it? That I very clearly get your message with it? Would that make you happy?”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “I just thought you’d appreciate the artistry,” I say coolly. “I had it commissioned specially for you. To capture the essence of who you are.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I think she might explode. Instead, she takes a deep breath and nods.
“Well, thank you for going to such trouble. It’s nice of you. It’s … unforgettable.”
One thing I can’t take from her mockery. I didn’t marry her for that. I rise from my seat and move closer to the painting. “Unforgettable,” I repeat, tasting the word. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
She looks away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the piano stool. “Why?” she asks quietly, almost to herself. “Why did you do it?”
The question hangs in the air between us, unanswered. I know why I did it. To remind her—and myself—that I’m the one in control now. That she doesn’t get to rewrite the past or pretend it didn’t happen. No matter how much she smiles, how pitiful she looks, or how much she wants to move forward and forget the past, I’ll always be here to drag her back.
I refill my glass again and swirl the amber liquid gently. I don’t want to spend any more time with her tonight. I want to be alone. To drown in the quiet and let the storm outside mirror the one inside me.
“It’s late,” I say, my tone dismissive. “You should get to bed.”
She shakes her head in defeat and without another word, she rises and heads for the door. I watch her go, the faint scent of rain clinging to her as she moves. The outline of her silhouette against the dim light of the hallway makes something twist deep inside me—something I wish I didn’t feel.
The door clicks shut behind her, and for a long while, I just stand there, staring at the empty space where she had been. Then I turn back to the painting, my gaze locking onto those cold, unrecognizable eyes.
Unforgettable. Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted. But that creature is a lie. That is not her. Even I know it.
I stare out of the window and can’t stop thinking about her. How wet she was from the rain, her clothes clinging to her curves, the way her hair dripped in dark rivulets down her back.
The liquor burns through me, igniting a fire I can’t extinguish. It fuels a raw, untamed need—an aching desperation to silence my thoughts the only way I know how. I need her. I need to lose myself in her. To drown in her until there’s nothing left of this restless, raging heat. I need to fuck her. Hard.
Before I know it, I’m on my feet. My steps are quick and decisive. I catch up to her just as she reaches the top of the stairs. Her hand is on the banister, and she’s mid-turn when I grab her arm and tug her toward me.
“Earl!” she exclaims, startled, her voice a mix of confusion and astonishment. “What are you—?”
“Come on,” I cut her off, my tone rough and uncaring. I don’t give her a chance to argue as I pull her along, her footsteps stumbling slightly to keep up with mine.
“Ow,” she mutters, her tone sharp. Her free hand goes to my wrist, trying to ease my grip, but I don’t let go. I can’t. My pulse is pounding too hard, and the feel of her skin against mine only stokes the fire.
I lead her straight to my bedroom, the door swinging shut behind us with a finality that makes the air in the room feel heavier. She looks at me, her brows furrowed, her lips parting as if to speak, but I don’t give her the chance.
“Strip,” I say, my voice low, roughened by desire and whiskey.