Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
No one makes me coffee in the morning.
Then reality crashes back in with the force of a thunderstorm—the cabin, the canopy bed, Ashland's fucking handprint probably still visible on my arse.
Except when I think about that, about being over his lap, about his stern voice and the way he touched me, heat pools low in my belly instead of rage.
No.
No, absolutely fucking not. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the memory of his palm connecting with my skin, the way my body responded—thighs clenching together, my breath hitching.
Was it a whimper, Bianca? Jesus, it was shock. Fear. Something other than what it obviously was.
Great. Am I so needy and desperate that I'm starting to fall for this man?
He took me. He kidnapped me.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
My ankle hurts when I test it, but it's definitely better. Not broken, thankfully—maybe sprained and probably bruised. Just enough to ruin my escape attempt.
Damn it.
I hobble to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. Same dark eyes, same pale skin, but my pupils are dilated. My lips look fuller, redder, like I've been kissed.
Stop it, Bianca. Stop it right now.
This is textbook Stockholm syndrome. I've read about it. The theory holds that the captor becomes the protector in the victim's mind. Trauma bonds form.
This is psychology, not attraction.
Except he says he has me here to keep me safe.
Except he's obviously obsessed with me.
Except. Except.
Except I felt that jolt of electricity when he—
I grip the sink, breathing hard. I need to get out of here, not because I'm afraid he'll hurt me. No, at this point, I'm pretty sure he won't.
Now I'm afraid of what I'll become if I stay.
I should be furious, plotting another escape. Instead, I'm wondering what he's making for breakfast. What he's wearing.
And I hate myself for it.
I mean, the man did bring me Lancelot…
As if summoned by my thoughts, the cat weaves between my ankles, purring. I scoop him up and bury my face in his soft fur. At least someone here makes sense.
I emerge from the bedroom, hobbling.
Ashland's in the kitchen. Today he's wearing a black tee that stretches across his shoulders, and I can see the full scope of the tattoos running down his arms—vines and thorns, dark and somehow beautiful. Woven through the ink are symbols that make my stomach twist: brass knuckles on his left forearm, a Celtic cross wrapped in barbed wire on his right, shamrocks positioned at his pulse points like territorial markers. On his knuckles, I catch the edge of more ink disappearing under his fingers when he flexes his hand.
These aren't decorative, but a résumé written in ink—violence, loyalty, a life I was raised to fear.
Aw, fuck, he looks gorgeous.
And I'm trying to remember where he slept last night.
Why does he have to look so beautiful? Of course he fucking does.
“Morning.” I keep my voice husky.
His gaze turns to me and sweeps over me—slow, thorough, possessive. My skin pebbles into goose bumps. He looks at me like he wants to devour me, as if he's been starving for six years and I'm the only thing that can satisfy his hunger.
“Morning, lass.” His Irish accent wraps around the word, making it somehow sound filthy.
He walks to me and throws his arm around my shoulder to help me across the room.
“I'm fine,” I say.
“Stop that,” he says with authority. I instantly respond to it, which pisses me off.
“Coffee?”
“Aye.” He pulls the chair out. Once again, I ask myself—if I'd sprained my ankle, would Marcus have carried me to the chair?
No. I tripped once, off a curb, and he scolded me for being clumsy.
I am clumsy. Why didn't I even question that?
When Ashland steps aside, I can't help but look at his muscles, wondering what they would feel like under my fingers—flexed biceps when he is over me, under my tongue.
Jesus Christ, am I ovulating?
He pours me a cup without asking how I take it. Two sugars, a heavy dose of cream. Perfect. His hands are so large, wrapped around the mug, scarred knuckles brushing my fingers when he passes it to me. He holds it out gently, like I'm something precious.
I imagine his hands on me—gripping my hips, tangled in my hair, spreading my thighs.
I take a scalding sip of coffee to shock myself back to sanity.
It doesn't work.
“Sit, lass,” he says. And the command in his voice does something I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
“I've made pancakes.”
“Pancakes?”
“I saw ’em on a post or some such.”
I stare. Are those… American-style pancakes? They're fluffy and golden, with fresh strawberries and real maple syrup. My favorite Sunday breakfast. The one my nonna used to make for me before she died.
How?
“I—” I stop. “Never mind.”
“You make them the first Sunday of every month,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “You measure the ingredients just the way she taught you, and you hum Italian songs while you cook.”