Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Or the Greek mob lord. Whatever he’s called.
He’s too hard to put own his shields long enough to see me for what I really am.
Scared and alone.
The total opposite of a freaking spy.
In the morning, I roll out of bed and shower. When I come back out, I find clothes laid out on the bed already: a pair of dark jeans and a cream top, the sort of thing a rich woman would wear out to brunch. I grind my jaw and shove the clothes away, and try not to think about the very black, very lacy underwear that was left out along with it, and storm into the closet.
Some of the things I had bought for myself back in my apartment are hanging on the right side. There’s not much, but someone brought over a few shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, some shoes—
My heart starts to race as I dig through my stuff. “Where are they?” I whisper and turn to Evander’s side. I shuffle through his suits, crawling on my hands and knees, wearing nothing but a towel, on the edge of panic. My anger over last night and the whole spying ordeal is suddenly gone. “Where the fuck are they?”
“Where are what?”
I screech and fall back on my ass, the towel dropping off from my body, leaving me naked and still slightly damp.
Evander stands in the closet’s doorway, staring at me with wide eyes. For a beat, I sit there completely naked, utterly mortified, before I finally grab the towel and wrap it around myself. “Get the fuck out of here, you asshole!” I shout at him, and Evander’s eyes sparkle with amusement and something else.
Deep, dark lust.
“I think I’ll stay,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms.
I very ungracefully climb to my feet, doing my best not to flash him with my top or my bottom, and probably failing at both ends. I put my hands on my hips, seething, so pissed I could scream, but I’m extremely aware that I’m in a closet, alone, with Evander, wearing only a towel.
“Where are my shoes?” I say slowly but firmly, ignoring the fact that he could strip me down and take me if he wanted. “Or do you still think I’m a spy and won’t help me?”
His smirk is infuriating. “You know I have to be careful, asteraki mu.”
“Whatever. I don’t care. All I want to know is where are my shoes?”
“There,” he says, raising an eyebrow, and pointing.
“Not those shoes. Where are my sneakers? I had one pair of sneakers, the Nike Air Max III from 1990 in the gray and red and black colorway. Where the hell are they?”
He tilts his head in confusion. “Those old pieces of junk? I had them thrown away. You have plenty of new shoes more fitting for a Don’s wife and—”
My hands ball into fists and I’m breathing hard. Tears spring into my eyes and I don’t want him to see me cry but I’m so angry I can’t think right now.
First, he accuses me of spying for my ex, and now he does this.
Those shoes were all I had left.
Those shoes were the only things of value I owned and the only things I took with me when I left Christopher.
And now he says they’re gone—thrown away like trash.
“Get them back,” I say, blinking rapidly to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. “I need them back. Right now.”
“Camille. They were garbage. I can buy you a dozen more pairs—”
“You don’t understand.” I approach him slowly. “When I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed to get a job. My parents gave me twenty dollars every week as allowance, and you know what I did? I saved it, every single week, for months and months, until one day I found that pair of shoes in a vintage shop. They were more expensive than I could afford, so I saved for another few months, and then I spent every single cent on them even though it was stupid and they’re just shoes. I fell in love with vintage sneakers, and that pair has been with me since I was sixteen years old. They’re all I had when I was with Christopher, and they’re the only things I brought with me when I left him.” I jab a finger at his face, seething with rage. “I am not a spy for anyone. I am not here because I want to hurt you or anyone in your family. I’m here because I want to survive my violent piece of shit ex-husband. And now you threw away the only objects that ever mattered to me.”
He gazes at me for a long moment. If there’s pity or regret in his expression, I don’t see any evidence of it. Instead, he slowly pushes my finger down, lowering it from his face, and takes a slow breath.