Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“Then I should feed you.” His tone scraped, stinging her nerves. “Just to ensure that the next thing you throw leaves a mark.”
“Why are you such a jerk?” She shivered even as the spraying water started to heat and form a cloud of steam between them.
He blocked the exit with his sheer size, wearing a hateful scowl, dark jeans, and a black muscle-hugging shirt. Mist collected on the fabric in a blurry shine, making him look otherworldly, like an angry, avenging warlord.
If he expected her to take a shower while he watched, he could fuck right off.
“Move.” She stepped over the bathtub ledge only to be shoved back in.
Indignation warred with fatigue, and the latter won out as she staggered and fell on her butt.
“Goddammit!” She staggered back to her feet and swayed. “Let me out!”
The hollows and slashes of his sculpted cheeks, the twisted sneer of his mouth, all of it carved a cruel expression in his unbearably handsome face. But his looks were overshadowed by the dispassion in his steady, golden eyes. Didn’t matter what she said. He had a plan for her, and it wouldn’t be merciful.
His gaze took a tour along her soaked clothes as he drifted closer, so close she detected fumes of beer on his breath. The piney, masculine aroma agitated her hunger and stirred other things she refused to acknowledge.
She met his eyes. “I’m not stripping in front of you, motherfucker.”
His lip curled, and he leaned back. “You’re old enough to be my mother, and that’s a hard pass.” He tossed the soap into the tub and yanked the shower curtain closed between them. “You have five minutes to undress and clean off the blood.”
His nastiness penetrated, leaving a toxic, coiling pain in the deepest chambers of her heart.
“If I don’t?” she asked.
“I’ll do it myself, and neither of us will enjoy it.”
So he’d rather insult her than see her naked. Fine. That was preferable. She could handle spiteful words, even if they hurt.
It was time she stopped thinking of him as the boy she’d connected with ten years ago. That kid was gone, and this man was beyond saving.
She only needed to save herself.
Lightheaded and famished, she shook from head to toe, her fingers uncooperative and trembling as she pulled off the soggy clothes and washed her hair.
If he remained on the other side of the curtain, she couldn’t hear him. No amount of curiosity would compel her to steal a peek. Besides, he wouldn’t go far.
Even if he thought she was old enough to be his mother.
Over the past few years, she found that maturity in women warded off shallow, insecure assholes—the same way aposematism warned off predators. If he was repelled by her age, it was working.
But his jab still burned her up. She was only forty-one. Fourteen years older than him. Maybe it was biologically possible to birth a child at that age, but she didn’t know any fourteen-year-old mothers.
Why was she still thinking about this? Fuck him.
She needed the keys to her truck and an escape plan.
She needed food.
Finishing the shower in a rush, she shut off the water and grabbed the curtain. Then she slowly peered around the edge.
The bathroom was empty, the door cracked. No sound drifted in, but she knew he was out there, waiting with animosity in his eyes.
When she drove here three days ago, she saw this playing out so differently. If that rapist piece of shit, Paul, hadn’t shown up, maybe Tommy would’ve despised her less and listened more.
Or maybe he’d just sounded nicer in email, and she didn’t really know him at all.
A towel sat on the vanity, along with a clean pair of her pajama pants and an unfamiliar t-shirt. She hurried through drying, dressing, and using the toilet, left her ruined clothes in the bathtub, and stepped into the narrow hall.
Glancing toward the bedroom, she noticed the bed had already been stripped and replaced with clean bedding. Meticulous as ever, he would undoubtedly have all traces of Paul’s blood gone from his property by nightfall.
How strange to be inside this house after hearing about it for ten years. It was exactly as he’d described—dark, cramped, cozy. And quiet.
The scent of food invaded her nose. She’d guzzled water and apple juice when she woke, but the gnawing emptiness in her stomach screamed for substance.
Her pulse quickened as she entered the front room.
Tommy sprawled on the couch, a sun-browned hand hanging casually over the armrest. Steam rose from a bowl that sat on the table before him, the aroma of delicious spices pervading the air.
Chili. Out of a box, a can, wherever it came from, she didn’t care. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and her belly churned with ravenous need.
“Where’s Cole?” She tugged on the oversize shirt, fighting the impulse to attack the food.