Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“It will tomorrow, brat. You need to drink water.” He reached behind him and grabbed a plastic cup from the nightstand, knocking random clutter to the floor. He didn't bother picking it up. He simply rolled back and held out the cup with a raised brow.
God, what must the floor look like? Clothing and crap scattered with no order and configuration? “The mess—”
“The mess is mine. Drink.”
She gritted her teeth. “Last time you told me to drink—”
“I won't drug you, because I'm not taking you anywhere.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You're exactly where I want you.”
Her heart thumped, the foolish, gullible thing. She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I like you.”
She expected a charming grin, but what he gave her was an expression etched with honesty.
“Jesus, you look so beautiful right now.” His timbre was rough, throaty.
Her mouth fell open. She was a fucking mess. Mental issues aside, she didn't wear a stitch of makeup, and her hair tangled around her neck and shoulders from rolling in the grass. She wanted to point this out, but he regarded her with such intense focus, it was easier to drop the subject. She glanced at the waiting cup.
How long had it been sitting on the table, amongst watches and hangers and discarded candy wrappers? Was there dust and bacteria in it? She wrinkled her nose. “How fresh is that?”
His eyes hardened into steel blades. “Too damned tired for this, Amber. Don't test me.”
Just like that, his command was back, a reminder of his volatile nature. She accepted the cup, draining the lukewarm water, her throat tightening in pain and revulsion with each swallow. He took it from her, tossing it somewhere on the floor. With all the other mounting debris. Where there were no lines, no structure, no routine.
Her scalp tingled with rising anxiety. Stop thinking about it. “I'm going to make your life hell.”
His head lowered to the pillow, his eyes closed. “My life is already hell. An eternal dark walk of the damned.”
A bit dramatic, but no question he was damned, as was she. But there was warmth in his dark walk. Intense warmth with rock hard arms that held her close. She couldn't figure him out and, at the moment, didn't have the strength to try.
“Did you count the swings of the whip?” he murmured against her forehead. “In little groups of four?”
Her head jerked back. Count the—? No, it hadn't occurred to her. Her teeth clamped down on the inside of her cheek, sparking a burn in her eyes. How could she have forgotten to count? She'd been so scared of the woods stretched out before her, gawking at her nudity. Then the sting of the whip came, and her mind had just...blanked. He'd distracted her in a way no one else had been able to do.
“Didn't think so.” His face was softly vacant, but a smile lightened his tone. “Twenty-three lashes. Not twenty. Not twenty-four.”
Twenty-three marks on her body. An uneven number without balance or special meaning. Her pulse raced. The fucking prick did it on purpose! “Give me another whack of your whip. Just one.” She leaned up, patting his whiskered cheek, but he wouldn't open his eyes. “It'll be quick. We can do it right here.” She cringed at the frantic pitch in her voice.
“Begging already?” His lips bowed up beneath her fingers, his eyelids smooth and closed. “Go to sleep.”
She glared at him, fingers itching to slap his peaceful face. What would he do? Give her another twenty-three lashes? Pin her down and fuck her? Take her outside? The last thought jerked her hand away.
The longer she studied him, the more conflicted she became. The sharp angles of his jaw, the slope of his perfect nose, the fringes of dark lashes, and the jagged edge of the scar that cut so deep into his cheek it must've hit bone. He was stunning, painfully so, but nothing in his features revealed who he was.
His lips relaxed, the muscles in his face loosened, and soon his chest settled into an even rise and fall of sleep.
For the next hour, she deliberated over what to do. She was a captive to this man. She should've been plotting her escape with fearful breath. Only she didn't feel scared, and that should've scared her the most. Instead, she was enraged, dreaming up ways to stick it up his ass and rotate it because he'd refused her a twenty-fourth mark. So yeah... All kinds of logical reasoning going on.
The bedside clock flipped to 12:04. It had only been twelve hours since she'd sent Zach away. No one would've noticed her disappearance yet. Or ever. No missing woman reports. No investigations. She was a nobody and had no one to blame for that but herself.
Van hadn't moved in his sleep, his heavy arm hanging limply around her. How could he have let his guard down so easily?