Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“When was the business purchased?” I don’t know why I’m subjecting myself to unnecessary hurt, but for some reason, I’m curious to discover if Dante’s decision to buy all the brothels in the region was because he believes he paid to sleep with me last week or because he took my threat tonight as literal.
I sink onto a bench when my caller replies, “An hour ago. Perhaps two. It was a cash offer too good to deny.”
My throat grows scratchy and my eyes burn, but I refuse to cry in public.
He’s boxed me in and cut off every escape route.
An unusual blend of anger and something dangerously close to longing twists inside me.
I hate that.
I should be furious enough to keep this solely about anger.
He’s trying to control me as I’ve been controlled my whole life. That isn’t something I should be okay with.
“I’m not a fucking puppet!” I shout into the night air, startling a couple enjoying an evening stroll.
I groan in frustration when the man on the other end says, “I never said you were, sweetheart.”
“Sorry,” I say, tone lower. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He hums a disagreeing murmur before he tells me it’s getting late, so I should head home. “It’s not safe near the river at this time of night.”
“Who said I was by the river?”
I never knew you could hear a man’s cheeks rise until now. “Do you hear that bird in the background? That’s a Sicilian Rock Patridge. Though not exclusive, its habitat depends heavily on wetlands. When nesting, it selects marshy, riparian environments, such as a river mouth.”
An unexpected giggle tumbles up my throat when he makes snoring noises. It’s followed by an oomph and a stern warning of the consequences someone named Nico will face if he hits him again.
After a handful of grunts from an impromptu scuffle, he adds, “So, yeah, sweetheart, you should head home.”
Over people telling me what to do, I poke out my tongue, then end our call.
Although the heat of Dante’s worry that my threats aren’t idle could melt ice caps, I can’t shake the chills rolling down my spine. Eventually, the cold wins. Furthermore, the weight of my disappointment is too heavy to keep wandering. I won’t mention the aftermath of back-to-back orgasms.
After a final appreciative glance at the scenery, I commence my long walk back to my apartment. By the time I reach my building, my hands are so frozen that it takes three attempts to slot the key into the lock keeping the homeless out of the lobby.
It’s cold enough to snow, so after checking that the coast is clear, I brace the door so it doesn’t fully close. The homeless are harmless. I know this from experience. I snuck into many buildings during the first year of my metamorphosis.
When I unlock the door of my studio, I expect the familiar echo of emptiness when I swing it open. Instead, it opens to dust and a gaping hole where my living room wall once was.
I freeze in the doorway, blinking hard. The air is choked with plaster shavings and sawdust, and a power drill whines somewhere inside. My eyes dance from left to right when men in high-visibility vests move around the space, constructing a new wing for my studio.
In my exhaustion, I must have climbed too many floors—or maybe not enough?
I look at the number on the door.
12B.
Cautiously, I step inside, my boots crunching on debris. My mattress is shoved into a corner and covered with a plastic sheet. The kitchenette is taped off, and a tarp that flaps in the breeze half covers the sole window.
“Um… excuse me.”
The workers ignore me, but a head pops through the opening in the once-solid wall. My greeter’s panty-wetting face and wolfish smirk launches my heart into my throat.
Dante.
He’s infuriatingly calm, like he’s not standing in what used to be my apartment.
“You’re home.” He folds his arms over his chest and then balances his shoulder on framework that didn’t exist hours ago. “Finally.”
I stare at him incredulously when his eyes narrow at the completion of his reply.
Why is he angry? I’m the one who had her life torn apart today.
Our stare-off, which is brimming with more than annoyance, is interrupted by a man with a hard hat and a fearful expression. I’d also be scared if I had to shout at a man who emits authority. He isn’t being rude. He’s simply endeavoring to be heard over the industrial vacuum cleaner that’s removing plaster dust from the floorboards.
“If the construction is to your standards, we’ll finalize cleanup, then call it a night.” When Dante’s eyes fall over the workmanship, the supervisor quickly stumbles out, “Paint and touch-ups will be done first thing tomorrow. We need to let the plaster dry before we can paint it.”
“Very well.” Dante signs a single slip of paper on a clipboard before nudging his head to the apartment now attached to mine.