Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Anissa knows how to cook.
“The fact that you have a kitchen like this and don’t use it is an absolute travesty,” she said, tying on an apron. It was ridiculous. Adorable. She didn’t look like the domestic type in the slightest, but then she rolled her sleeves up and got to work.
And she knows what she’s doing. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I never believed that shit, but every time she puts a meal in front of me that reminds me of my childhood—something warm, something familiar—I fucking feel it.
She’s doing it on purpose.
She leans too close when she’s not supposed to, just enough for me to catch her scent. I still put her to bed in her cage every night, but at this point, it’s just for show. If I really wanted to keep her here, I have other ways. And she knows that. She likes it.
She brushes her fingers over my wrist when she takes dishes from the table, a light touch—like an afterthought. But it’s not. It’s calculated. I know better.
She tilts her head just so when she speaks, her voice dipping soft, getting under my skin.
And it’s working.
I want her in my bed. Not just when I fuck her. I want her there when I roll over in the middle of the night. I want her soft skin, her scent, her heat. I want to shove her against the wall and make her stop this game she’s playing—but I don’t. Because deep down, I don’t want her to stop.
I watch her too closely now, memorizing every flicker of emotion, every micro expression. The way her lips part slightly before she lies. The way her eyelids droop when I threaten to spank her. The way she bites her lip when I do.
The way she smells—fuck, the way she smells—like something sweet beneath sharp steel. I could be separated from her for fifty years and still smell that and think of her.
But this is all an act. She isn’t real with me. She’s spent so much time shifting from disguise to disguise, I doubt she even knows who she is anymore. Authenticity terrifies her. At least, that’s my theory.
If I wasn’t so fucking dead set on getting revenge and proving my worth to the Bratva, I might find it amusing. But I don’t. It’s fucking infuriating.
She’s in my dreams.
I wake up angry. Unsettled. My cock hard as fuck. I bury myself inside her, and even then, it doesn’t satisfy me. I don’t just want to fuck her. I want to own her.
But it isn’t up to me.
I can say the words, claim her, but until she gives herself to me—truly submits—it’s just noise. It’s just a lie.
And then she does it again. Turns too slowly when I speak. Lets her fingers linger too long on my forearm. Holds my gaze just a second too long. Bites her lip. Breathes too deeply.
And finally, at breakfast, after she sets a fucking feast in front of me, I look up at her.
“What game are you playing?”
That smirk. That fucking smirk makes me want to grab her by the hair, yank her back, and punish her.
Slow and knowing, she leans in, her breath sweet and warm against my ear.
"What are you talking about, big guy?" Her voice is teasing, dangerous. "What if I told you I’m not playing at all?"
And then something in me snaps.
I grab her wrist and yank her onto my lap, her breath hitching just before I seal my mouth over hers. She meets me—teeth and tongue, hands in my hair, nails biting into my scalp like she wants me to feel it.
I do.
She gasps when I grip her hips and drag her against me, making sure she feels my erection pressing into her ass so she knows how badly I need her. My fingers dig into her thighs, my control hanging on by a thread.
"Go ahead, little ghost," I growl against her lips. "Keep lying to me. Keep telling me you’re not playing games. Like you’re not fucking biding your time until you can run again."
She grins, slow and wicked. "I thought you liked it when I ran," she whispers. "I thought you loved to chase me."
"You know I fucking do."
I wait for her to run. I want her to. I want to give her a head start, chase her down, pin her against the wall.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she moves—rocking against me, rolling her hips in a slow, devastating grind. My grip tightens, and she fucking moans, and that’s it. That’s the last snap of restraint I have.
I stand, lifting her with me, carrying her to my bed. Our bed.
I throw her down onto the mattress, tearing off her clothes and then mine. She looks up at me, eyes dark and hungry, lips swollen from kissing.