Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 152710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
“Come.” He turns for the door, knowing I’ll obey because I don’t have a choice.
I collect my clutch and follow him down the hallway, not surprised to see Russell still guarding the front door. He’s not as tall as Damian, but meatier. His presence would’ve been scary if I weren’t used to the bodyguards in Harold’s house.
At end of the hallway, Zane opens a door to a bedroom.
“This is you,” he says, entering ahead of me.
I step inside cautiously. Burgundy wallpaper covers the walls, and the windows are draped with heavy curtains. A four-poster bed stands against the far wall. Two stuffy armchairs face a fireplace. The decoration is somber and masculine. I don’t need the faint remnants of Damian’s cologne to tell me this is his room. The scent is earthy like a misty day and tangy like citrus. Cold like winter. It’s both disturbingly male and refreshingly clean. I can’t stay in this room that bears Damian’s stamp on all sensory levels. I don’t want to share a room with a man who’s a stranger.
Oblivious to my consternation or simply not caring, Zane takes my clutch and phone and leaves them on the table by the cold fireplace.
I’m curious as to this man’s friendship with Damian. For someone who doesn’t know me, his hostility is fierce. “How do you and Damian know each other?”
“From jail.”
“Oh. What were you in for, if I may ask?”
“Same as Dami.”
“Theft?”
“Come,” he says again.
I follow him awkwardly to an adjoining dressing room. The closets don’t have doors and the shelves are open cubbyholes with smaller ones for belts and ties. There are a few shirts, one spare jacket, and a pair of pants. Damian only got out a week ago. I suppose he hasn’t had time to fill his sadly lacking dressing room. Those lonely shirts in all that vast space look forlorn. The sight elicits an involuntary and unexpected pang of sympathy for a man who, not so long ago, didn’t even own a jacket. Zane pulls my nightdress from a drawer and shoves it into my hand before pulling me by the arm to an en suite bathroom.
“You have five minutes to shower.”
The door slams in my face. It takes me two seconds to register the dull ache his fingers have left on my arm and another for panic to set in. Dropping the nightdress, I fling myself at the sealed exit. I grip the doorknob, twisting it in my clammy palm while jerking on the door. I’m about to yell for someone to let me out when the knob turns, and the door opens. I’m not locked in. Resting my forehead against the wood, I drag in deep breaths. When my heartbeat calms, I open the door wider and peer around the frame. I’m alone. The bedroom door stands open. I leave the bathroom door open a crack and rush through a shower, finding my shampoo on the shower shelf.
When I’m done with my shower, I take a little time to familiarize myself with the bathroom. My cosmetic bag is set on the vanity and my robe hangs on a hook behind the door, next to a robe I assume to be Damian’s. Half of the cabinets are stocked with male toiletries—shaving cream, razors, hairbrushes, and deodorant—and the other half is empty. The arrangement screams at me like a taunting message. Refusing to give it too much thought, I brush my teeth. Instead of using the space left for me, I pack everything back into my cosmetic bag. If I don’t put my toothbrush next to Damian’s, I can pretend it’s just temporary. I can pretend I still have a choice in something.
Pulling on my robe, I go back into the bedroom, but stop in my tracks. Zane sits on a chair next to the door, filing his nails.
“Feeling better?” he asks with a mocking smile.
I prefer to ignore him, but it’s hard to do when he grabs my arm and manhandles me to the bed.
“Take off the robe,” he says.
When I’ve done so, he drapes the robe over a chair, pushes me down on the left side of the bed, and pulls the covers up to my chest. With my long-sleeved nightdress, it’s too hot, but I lie stiffly while he arranges my arms on top.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all.
“What for?”
He yanks my arm above my head.
“What are you doing?”
I’m wrestling with a renewed bout of fear when he takes a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and cuffs my wrist to the bedframe.
“Dami’s orders. In case you feel like jumping out of a window.” He grabs my face in one hand, his fingers digging into my cheeks. “Do you know what Dami is capable of? Do you know what he’ll do to you if you try anything stupid?”