Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“I would’ve preferred carving a message into his chest and then leaving his body on the doorstep of the Boston Delinquents to make a point to never come after you again.”
My mouth opens and then closes again. There’s so much to unpack in that one statement. What a fucked-up knight in shining armor indeed.
“Who even talks like that?” I ask, dropping his hand and stepping back to put distance between us because I never trust myself in his proximity.
“Don’t act like you don’t know who I am, Posie. You knew exactly who you were letting between your legs.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes, I knew he was connected to the mafia. But to come to my home, where my son sleeps, with blood on him…
That I will not accept.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
I don’t know how to express my feelings because I still haven’t entirely processed it. Dutton is a monster in his own right. I’d never seen him snap like that, never seen that violent side of him. But in that moment, amongst the ugliness, I knew immediately that I was safe. And yet, I know I should step away from him; magnetism be damned, because I should be scared by a powerful man like him.
But how do I express any of that? I want to be mad at him for following me, but I’m grateful he did. I want to thank him for last night and how he brought me to life for the first time in what felt like years, but I also want to reprimand him for assuming he can arrive at my doorstep whenever he wants.
My gaze lands back on the cut on his cheek, and guilt floods me once again. So, I settle on a simple apology. “I’m sorry about your cheek,” I say, grateful he didn’t follow me all the way home after the incident. I didn’t want to explain to Amy or my son why a man on a motorcycle was on my doorstep, splattered with blood.
I’d closed that chapter of my life.
At least, I thought I had.
“Why were you in Boston? Are you a part of that motorcycle club?” he questions, all his softness now gone.
I grow uncomfortable, knowing too well a man like this could probably gather all sorts of information on me. And I hate that about him. I hate that because of his power, money, and influence; he can so easily place me in a box that he can dig into my past, to a version of myself that I’d rather leave hidden. But I suppose, at the very least, I can give him an honest answer.
“I’m not. I got caught up in the wrong crowd when I lived in Boston after my parents died. I returned today to grieve the anniversary of their deaths. I didn’t expect someone would be there waiting.”
His eyebrows furrow as if not sure whether to believe me. I don’t give a flying fuck if he does. I have no loyalty to him.
Tension ripples around us, but I refuse to look away. A million unasked questions seem to pass between us and then it’s my turn to question him.
“Why did you follow me? How did you know where I was?” I’ve already strangely come to accept that Dutton is an enigma; he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. But why is he so fixated on me?
“You left my house without saying goodbye.”
I narrow my gaze. “Yeah, newsflash. Most guys prefer that. They don’t haul ass for a four-hour drive and miraculously somehow know where I’m at. That’s stalker-level shit.”
He casually shrugs a shoulder. “I’m attentive. And don’t ever compare me to other men. Ever. I might be so inclined to uncover the names of every man you’ve slept with and then remove them permanently so you have no one to compare me to.”
“You really are a psycho, aren’t you? Dutton, stop talking in circles. I’m not a stupid woman. Answer me outright.”
He’s not a man who often answers to others, and I imagine he’s not used to revealing his hand. But I’m also one to keep my cards close to the vest.
He rubs his jaw—something I haven’t seen him do before—as if seriously considering what he should say.
“I put a tracker on your car. I’d like to say I take security for my employees very seriously, but I’d be lying if I said you’re not the only one I’ve done it to.”
My jaw drops. “What the fuck?”
“I believe you once called me a possessive asshole; there may be some truth to that, and I’m not going to apologize. Also, you might call it foresight. Because it’s lucky I did track you, or who knows if you’d be coming back in one piece after today.”
I want to argue with him because I know he’s not telling me the entire truth. I feel like Dutton is hiding a motive I don’t entirely understand. He might also be so overbearing that he just tracked me because he has the money and time to do so.