Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
She rises, with a slight tremor in her movements, and blows a loose hair from her face.
“You’re very sneaky for such a big guy.”
Yeah. Occupational hazard. But I’m not about to explain that.
“I thought you were decorating, not snooping.”
She shakes her head, smiling like she’s enjoying this way too much. “Are you determined to be in a bad mood all the time?”
When I don’t answer, her grin grows. “I think I’ll call you Scrooge. Perfect fit. Broody. Focused. Grumpy.”
“Scrooge wasn’t grumpy,” I mutter. “He had a purpose, Celine, a goal he could pursue single-mindedly. There’s nothing better for a man to have, nothing better to keep him sane.”
“What’s your goal?” she asks quietly. Like she actually cares.
I say nothing. Because I can’t.
“Does it have something to do with—”
“Don’t,” I snarl. “It’s bad enough I let you in here. There are questions you don’t get to ask.”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I can handle it?”
I drag my fingers along the skin near my scar. “I think you don’t want me to answer that.”
“Whatever you say…” She pauses dramatically. “Scrooge.”
A laugh escapes me before I can help it. A slight break in the darkness I should’ve kept buried.
She’s Julian’s sister. That alone should shut this whole thing down.
But somehow it isn’t enough.
She beams. Fucking glows. Since she arrived, her only goal has been to make me laugh and smile. I kill the laughter and reach out for the book.
I don’t mean to do it, but our hands brush. A shock of heat runs up my arm when I feel her soft skin, too gentle for the likes of me. Yet my hand lingers, as if it has plans of its own.
Heat jolts up my arm, sharp and unexpected, her skin too soft, too warm, too… dangerous. My hand lingers a second longer than it should, like it forgot who it belongs to.
She glances at our hands. Her nails have green, white, and red paint on them. Of course, even her nails are festive. How the hell did I miss that?
She lets out a shaky breath, a soft, breathy sound that slides under my skin.
I picture my hand traveling up her arm. Her shoulder. Her waist. Pulling her in. Feeling her body against mine.
I’m in a goddamn cage, and for one insane moment, she feels like the key that could open it. She can set me free.
What am I even thinking?
I take Moby Dick from her.
“Do you read a lot?” she asks, apparently wanting to reclaim some sense of normalcy.
She wants to pretend there isn’t a thrumming mass of tension bubbling beneath the surface.
“I find books easier than people,” I tell her.
She winks. “I find books easier than certain people too.”
Dammit. That gets a smile out of me. I don’t remember her ever having had this effect on me before. Sure, at the pool party a couple years back, I noticed the way her curves slick with water, droplets sliding down her thighs, swimsuit clinging like it had a vendetta.
But this is different.
This is… lightness. And it terrifies me.
Before I can reply, my cell phone buzzes. I check it.
One of my moles–homeless people I’ve hired to keep tabs on certain threats–has texted me.
John #1: Your target is on the move. Heading to the docks.
When I look back at Celine again, all lightheartedness has vanished from her expression. She looks at me like she knows what I am. Julian would’ve told me if that was the case. Nonetheless, I can see her putting the pieces together in her head.
Fear sparks in her light sea green eyes.
“You need to leave,” I say.
“There are more polite ways to make that happen, Damian.”
Her scolding tone almost drags another goddamn smile out of me. But I shut it down. I have to.
I just stare.
She lifts her chin. “I’m here doing you a favor. But fine, suit yourself.”
She moves past me—close enough that if I reached out, I could catch her by the waist. Feel her through that stupid sweater.
I step back before I do something I shouldn’t.
“I know the way,” she says, probably thinking I’m stepping aside to show her out.
Not because being close to her makes something in my chest twist painfully. I don’t answer. I can’t.
Business comes first.
After twenty minutes of beating the fuck out of Leon Marone, I believe him when he says he doesn’t know who was behind the attack that made me an outcast and scarred me for life.
He stares up at me from the dank floor of the abandoned warehouse, blood dripping down his face.
“Please, Damian.” He gasps. “Puh-please.”
“You know I can’t let you go,” I snarl, wiping my hands on a bloody rag. “You’d go running back to the Family. Tell them the Beast has risen from the grave. That it’s time to gear up and find where he’s holed up. Time to go to war. But the war starts when I say it starts.”