Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“M-Mr. Mercier!”
Her voice came out breathy, almost strangled, and the sound went straight through him like lightning.
“Surely we’re beyond formalities by now.” His tone was silky, but the way he found himself moving closer to her, it was more leopard than man, and in his eyes, Samira was now more prey than unexpected guest.
His words had her swallowing hard, the movement drawing his attention to the delicate line of her throat, and that was when he detected it. Another scent beneath the familiar one that had drawn him to her in the first place.
Ah.
That scent...complicated things.
Chapter Five
I’VE REHEARSED THIS speech seventeen times on the way here.
Or maybe it was eighteen?
I’ve kinda lost count somewhere between the third red light and that moment when the elevator doors slid shut and I realized I was actually going to go through with this.
You’re doing the right thing, I try convincing myself. You’re setting him free to be happy with the woman he actually loves.
And as much as I wish that woman was me—
Stop it, Sam.
I’ve made up my mind about it, and so there’s no point rehashing the past or wasting time on what-ifs.
My hand shakes as I knock, and when the door opens, I almost forget my own name.
Hexius stands there in dark jeans that cling to his long legs and a black V-neck that does absolutely forbiddingly wicked things to his broad shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, water droplets catching the light as they trace the strong column of his neck, and I have to grip the doorframe to keep from swaying.
Quick and painless, Sam. Quick and painless. Just get in, say your piece, then get out, asap.
“I need to talk to you,” I blurt out before I lose my nerve entirely.
“Of course.” He steps aside as he speaks, the smoothness of his tone a complete contrast to the way his golden gaze studies me with fierce intensity as I enter his home. He closes the door and raises a brow when he sees me still standing there. “After you, Samira.”
My skin tingles at the way he says my name. And it’s the kind of way that I would rather...not even think about.
The penthouse isn’t what I expected. I’ve worked on enough action movies to recognize the setup. Thick windows that could stop bullets, sightlines that cover every entrance, furniture positioned so no one could surprise him from behind. It’s luxury, yes, but the kind that could turn into a fortress in seconds.
Is this how all shifter billionaires are or is he just extra...cautious about his security?
“Please make yourself at home.”
“I’d rather not,” I say quickly. “I actually just came here to say something real quick.” And I really do hope I can say it as quickly as I can, with how my body is reacting rather strangely and, well, alarmingly, to his fresh-from-the-shower good looks.
“Is that so?”
“Uh huh.” Is it just me or has the air suddenly become charged with electricity? And why is my pulse suddenly racing like mad? I just don’t understand why I’m feeling so, um, so—
“Go on then.”
Hexius’ polite invitation hauls me back to the present, and with my senses still out of sorts, I think...I think I should just go ahead and simply say it.
“I, um, can’t marry you.”
There, I’ve said it.
“I see.”
His tone is so perfectly...unreadable, and it just makes me feel so, so...hurt? Frustrated? Indignant?
I mean...why bother asking me to marry him if he can just take my refusal so easily like that?
Or maybe he was never serious in the first place—
“May I ask why?”
No, I’m childishly tempted to snap at him, and that...that’s a surprise because I’ve never been tempted to snap at anyone.
Not even at my grandfather, who used to lock me in my room without food, just to make sure I remember that he’s the one who calls the shots.
But anyway...
Remember the goal, Sam: we’re already in, so just say your piece, then leave.
“I want you to be happy.”
“You don’t think I’ll be happy with you?”
“I think you’ll be happiest with the woman you love.”
“Alphonse told you about her.”
How did he know that? Is he really sure he doesn’t read minds? How could he have known—
“It is best not to lie about this as your expression confirms as much.”
I...I think I’m this close to hating my face, grr.
“Okay, fine,” I say rather grumpily, and (yes, I know) childishly, too. “Your brother dropped by my workplace and told me just a bit.”
“So he told you just a bit—”
I can’t help wincing at the laziness in his tone.
“And that’s enough for you to make your mind up about my proposal?”
His words make me feel rather...foolish, and that’s...that’s so manipulative! It’s not foolish at all to care about happy-ever-afters.
Right?
And rather than foolish like he says, it’s...it’s actually, um, selfless—yes, that’s right, selfless!—of me to prioritize someone else’s happiness over mine—