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)
Each door we pass, a new guard falls in line behind us like a fucking marching band putting on a show, and it doesn’t stop until we’re at the end of the hall, no less than two dozen men silently trailing, nothing but their eyes visible above the bandanas—the infamous Fikile face masks.
None meet my eye and not for my lack of trying, so when we get into the lobby, I breathe a sigh of relief. This place, it isn’t an establishment run by those in our world. Someone will see and demand action, but my hope is killed as we move through the space and the corners of the room come into view.
They have the entirety of the staff gathered up like a flock of sheep, each one hovering on their hands and knees, but instead of the black bandanas revealing only their eyes like the guards, or stuffed in their mouths like mine, theirs are being used to steal their sight.
Great, there won’t be a single witness to my kidnapping.
I must lose some fight in me then, as Enzo’s chest shakes with a gruff laugh.
Asshole.
The massive double doors are yanked open, and we step outside, the sun beaming and bright.
That’s when I hear the deep, obnoxious laughter of another, and a rather pathetic growl works its way up my throat.
Enzo sets me on my bare feet, but I no sooner wince at the burning gravel my skin is met with than I’m hoisted right back up again. He shuffles, and this time when I’m lowered to the ground, my feet slide into a pair of shoes that swallow them whole.
A quick glance down reveals the man is now standing there in a six-figure suit with nothing but socks on his feet. I ignore the gesture completely and whip around, threatening to cut the dick of the traitor who laughed with my eyes.
Hayze might be the best friend of my sister’s new man, but he’ll become the dead best friend if I have my way. He said he’d help me hide until the tornado that was sure to be the arrival of Enzo on the Greyson grounds passed, not lead me right into the eye of it.
“Sorry, baby girl.” He grins, knowing damn well what I’m thinking. “Orders and all.”
“Call her baby girl one more time and I’ll send you back without your tongue.”
My head snaps toward Enzo, and he grips my arm, urging me into the back seat of a giant Hummer limo.
Who the hell still rolls around in a limo?
This time, when I meet Hayze’s gaze, it’s with a plea.
Don’t let this man take me.
The psycho only laughs harder.
“See you soon, sweetheart,” Hayze singsongs, then his eyes go wide as a low whistle whooshes past my ear.
“Oh shit.” Hayze drops to the ground with more grace than I would have given him credit for and will never, ever mention. He growls, rolling on the gravel and hopping up on one foot, his hand covered in blood when he removes it from his thigh.
Confused, I look over my shoulder, jarring back when I’m met with the cold, black steel of a silencer not three inches from my face. My eyes snap to Enzo’s, but the sharpness of his expression warns me not to question him. Hilarious, considering I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, mouth stuffed with a bandana and all.
Enzo slips inside the car, his free hand wrapping around my finger, and when I hesitate, deep brown eyes slice to mine once more, his chin lowering the slightest bit.
I should run. Right now.
As if reading my thoughts, Enzo lifts a dark brow, daring me to try and promising without words to give chase. Fucker would probably get off on that.
I climb into the stupid fucking car.
The ride is silent, and I try not to shrink into myself or look around the space, but I use my peripheral to take in what I can.
There are two guards sitting across from me, both male and both with bandanas slung over their noses, and Enzo is pressed firmly at my side. I’m pretty sure he’s glaring at the guards, but I don’t want to look to confirm, far too humiliated to even consider such a move.
My hair is probably a ratted, soapy mess, drying in that frizzy, awkward curly way it always does, and my face is a mess of melted makeup, half washed away from the water, the other half smeared by sweat.
I’m exposed and I hate it.
Never in my life have I gone out of the house, much less looked into the eyes of another, without all my armor to paint me the prima ballerina.
The daughter of the Don.
The perfect princess.
Well, as perfect as the second-rate twin can be, of course.
This is humiliating, but maybe that’s the point, to knock me down a few more pegs so I know where I belong. Below the rest of them.