Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Little does she know I didn’t need her little show of supremacy. I saw the twist in her skirt the instant she walked through the door, and I would bet if I took Enzo’s fingers into my mouth, it would be her I tasted on them.
Bitch.
“Mrs. Fikile.”
Both our heads snap toward the man at her back when he speaks, but he’s only looking at me.
The woman’s smile is as fake as the bored expression I’m suddenly struggling to keep on my face.
“I’m sorry?” she asks.
“You will address her as Mrs. Fikile,” he says with a harsh sense of finality that has a strange sensation sparking along my spine.
The woman doesn’t seem to pick up on his no-bullshit tone, responding, “That seems odd considering—”
“There is nothing odd about it. You will call her Mrs. Fikile. That is who she is.” His eyes hit mine. “Mrs. Enzo Fikile.”
Wait. What?!
My brows crash despite my efforts, and this time, a cruel smile curls his lush lips.
That is your declaration of consent, by the way. The marriage license you signed before you tried to leave me will be filed by nightfall. By this time tomorrow, Boston Revenaw will cease to exist.”
Holy shit.
The little line he had me read wasn’t just some narcissistic way of reminding me he owns me. That I offered myself up for the taking, then signed my future away to him. That he paid the fee my father required for my hand…with literal dollars.
The man in black was a priest or pastor or what the fuck ever, there to witness the declaration of intent, as he called it.
He married me. Very fucking poorly, but he went through with it, even after I left, and he was told I wouldn’t return, that I had “changed my mind.”
Enzo came and took me back himself, threw me in a tower and then made me the queen of it.
This isn’t a bluff. The truth is there, swimming in his dark gaze and in the way his shoulders are loosely set in what can only be considered satisfaction.
I am his now, more so than the contract had already detailed I would be.
I’m fucking married.
My stomach dips. Flips and rolls.
Must be from shock…right?
I do my best to offer no other reaction, not even when he passes the chair at the head of the table and continues this way.
He moves directly toward me, and I pull in a deep breath through my nose to hide the way my pulse jumps with each silent step. How a man his size, who emits as much power as him, can stalk so silently, I don’t know, but he manages it with ease.
I wait for him to tear me from my chair or to get in my face with a warning that he’d prefer not to speak about the bombshell he dropped in front of the bombshell he brought home, but he does neither of those things.
He simply takes the seat to my right, leaving me at the head of the table. He looks to my cup, the whipped cream having already melted into the drink, and lifts the Whip Tech, adding more, following up with caramel drizzle.
The move is so strange that I can’t help but stare at him as he does it.
At the sharp cut of his jaw, the heavy beat of his pulse just below it.
The harsh lines of his Adam’s apple.
There’s a sweetness in the air, rich and almost buttery, and I can’t say if it’s coming from her, him, or the fresh pour of caramel he hit me with.
The woman clears her throat, but he doesn’t look at her. He turns, slowly, our gazes locking like magnets.
Annoyed and, admittedly, self-conscious of my appearance this morning, I lift the damn cappuccino to my lips.
As if that’s exactly what he was waiting for, Enzo finally sits back, the tight pinch to his mouth soothing some.
“Ann-Marie. Have a seat, please. Let’s get the introduction out of the way so things will move along easier.”
Perfect. He wants me to officially meet his mistress.
The woman does as she’s told, her eyes scrutinizing as she takes me in as much as she can from her seated position. They settle on the mug in my hands, and a mocking smile graces her lips. “Hot chocolate. Cute.”
She watches me closely, waiting for me to shrink into myself at her not-at-all-subtle way of calling me a child. Of pointing out the obvious age difference between her and me. Between Enzo and me.
Enzo is watching me, waiting to see if I’ll tell her a distinct mixture of imported beans were grinded and blended together to make the perfect cup—perfect to my liking, of course—but instead I simply take another sip.
Annoyance flickers in her gaze and slowly she settles at Enzo’s side.
She reaches across him, holding her hand out for me to shake, her red fingernails sharp like talons.