Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Now he’s dead, and it’s my fault.
Different city, new reasons, but the same outcome. More blood in the streets. Corpses on the sidewalk. And all because of me.
I’m too stunned to cry.
I’m not sure how much time passes. Eventually, the noise in the house dies down. It’s late by the time I finally force myself up off the couch and shuffle down the hall. I think I’m going to bed, but I stop outside the door that leads into Tigran’s rooms.
His body on top of mine. His hands pinning my wrists above my head. His warm breath, the desperation and rage in his eyes.
Without thinking too much about it, I rap my knuckles lightly and wait.
I’m not sure what I’m doing. Maybe some dumb part of me is looking for comfort, even though I know there’s no comfort to be found in a man like Tigran.
I hear footsteps, then a loud click as the lock opens. I step back, regretting this the instant the door opens.
Tigran’s standing on the other side.
His hallway is a mirror of my own. Most of the lights are off in his suite. He’s wearing the same suit, the same shirt, dappled with blood. There’s a sutured cut on his forehead from the falling glass.
He looks at me with cold, dead eyes, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
Neither of us speaks. I’m shaking, terrified. I want to find words to express how I’m feeling, but I don’t think I can.
Without a word, he turns and walks toward his living room, flipping a light on behind him.
The invitation is clear.
I can follow if I want. The door is standing wide open. Or I can go back to my couch, curl up in a ball, and cry myself to sleep.
I touch the scar on my cheek and straighten my back. This isn’t proper. A good girl would crawl into bed alone tonight.
I walk stiffly into his space.
There are paintings on the walls. I catch glimpses of idyllic landscapes, like the ones on my side, except some of them are dark. Old ships burning outside a golden city. A battle obscured by a cloud of gunpowder smoke. Figures twisted and suffering behind heavy bars. They’re disturbing but also beautiful.
“Have a drink,” he says when I reach the living room. His couch is deep brown leather, and everything’s darker over here. It’s somewhat cluttered with books and magazines. A gun is lying on a table a few feet away from me. I wonder if it’s loaded.
There’s a bar cart to my left. My hands are shaking so much I spill a little wine on the floor and curse as I stoop to clean it. When I stand, he’s there, and his calm hands steady my own.
“Let me,” he says, moving me toward the couch.
I curl up at the far end, hugging myself and looking around the room. I didn’t expect this much personality. Tigran doesn’t seem like the kind of guy interested in decorating his personal space, but I notice strange splashes of idiosyncratic taste: a signed soccer ball in a case, vinyl records, and big wood-paneled speakers.
Everything’s deeply masculine but beautiful in a way.
He gives me wine and sits at the other end of the couch. Neither of us says anything. I take a long drink and stare at my hands, my heart hammering in my chest. I don’t even know why I’m so scared right now. Because I’m alone with a strange man for the first time?
Or because someone tried to kill me?
“Thanks for what you did earlier,” I say very quietly.
“You don’t need to thank me for that.” He’s studying me as he swirls a glass of something brown.
“I feel like I do, though. You saved my life.”
“I made sure you didn’t get sliced up like I did. But I think your reclusive nature saved you.”
I smile a little. “I always knew it’s safer to stay inside.”
He doesn’t return the smile. His face remains hard and concerned, his square jaw working. “I don’t know how that happened. My cars are swept for explosives constantly. Damian’s normally careful, and there’s no way the McGraths should’ve known my movements, much less been able to get close to my personal vehicle.”
This feels way beyond me. I only have a dim idea of who the McGraths are, much less a normal protocol for a mobster taking a car ride across town. “It isn’t your fault.”
“Actually, it’s entirely my fault,” he says, sounding hollow. “I wasn’t vigilant enough. My enemies got close to my wife.” His eyes lock on mine. They strangely bristle with repressed emotion. “That will never happen again. I promise you.”
I finish my wine, a shiver running down my spine. “Thanks for this.” I put the glass down on the coffee table. “That’s all I wanted to say. And also, I’m sorry about Damian.”