Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 108119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Shit.
This was why it never got personal.
Why I never learned their names.
As far as I was concerned, she was girl number six hundred and thirty-two.
And it would stay that way.
It had to.
Nobody in.
Ever.
Because the worst thing the monster could do was believe he could be anything but what he was born to be.
This is where the Italians and I had different beliefs.
They truly believed that loved saved.
But I knew the truth — it damned you more than any of the other deadly sins, because love was the only thing in this world that demanded everything and promised nothing.
Love was a lie.
“You need to eat,” I finally said in a sharp voice.
“What’s your na—”
“—no names.” I said through clenched teeth. “This is where you say thank you.”
“Th-thank you?” She repeated in disbelief.
“Yes,” I glanced over my shoulder and gave her a grin I knew would make her want to run in the opposite direction, a grin that a girl like her was probably used to considering how pretty she was, it was a promising grin one that said I would act against her if that’s what it took to get what I wanted, it was a grin of a man who had no need for a moral compass, a man who would stop at nothing, destroy everything, kill. “I’m waiting.”
I could feel her body tense.
Her dirty right foot tapped against the cement floor. It was bleeding, her pink nail polish looked ridiculous against the darkness of the room, of the building itself.
Hell, it was almost as bad as the cupcake wasn’t it?
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For?”
“Feeding me.”
“Again.”
“What?”
“I need you to say it again, and this time, I need you to mean it, six thirty-two.”
“Six thirty-two? My name is—”
“The minute you were brought here, you lost your name. You’re nothing but a fucking number. Now, mean it or I’m going to have to lock up your ankles again and I hate it when a product is bloody. Furthermore, so do they, since it’s their only passion in life, marring perfect flesh…”
She let out a gasp.
Good. Hate me.
It’s the only way she’ll live.
If she hates more than she hopes.
“Thank you.” Her voice was stronger now, irritated, angry. It was the first time in years that I wanted to look directly into her eyes and convey something other than darkness, despair, but I knew better than anyone, it would only end up killing her.
Torturing her more.
Hope was the cruelest word in the human language and giving her any was worse than death.
“That’s better,” I said in a clipped voice as I turned back in the direction of the kitchen.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
The kitchen was in view.
It was the only thing in the entire apartment at the club that had anything personal in it, personal of mine at least.
Food was a decadence.
Extra.
I’d been starved so much when I was little, purposely, that I made a promise to myself that I would never be without the best of everything.
And I paid to get it shipped to me on a weekly basis.
No guilt.
No regrets.
My directions were always specific. Fruits were sliced and spread out every two hours to make sure they stayed fresh, cheeses were flown in from around the world depending on my mood, and different types of proteins and breads were added along with wine pairings and vodka.
Eating was my sex.
My lover.
My life.
Damn it, also probably why Tex knew they had me every time I was invited for family dinner.
Fucking Chase’s pasta.
I almost groaned aloud, snapping myself out of what I was supposed to be doing.
Business.
Shit.
I nodded toward the large granite breakfast bar. “Grab a plate, make sure it’s full, two handfuls of protein, three handfuls of fruit and vegetables, add some fat, and if you’re drinking, drink everything straight. Wine will just fill you up, and you need to eat.” I finally turned and got a really good look at her that wasn’t from the other side of a security camera, and I did it.
The first time in a decade.
I showed my tell.
To a woman whose name I refused to know.
To a woman I would sell.
To a woman who was already dead.
She didn’t see it, how could she?
But I felt it, spread like a cold dread throughout my body.
For one brief second, hardly noticeable to the human eye, I let the darkness fall.
And I, Andrei Petrov.
Hoped.
CHAPTER SIX
Alice
The room was extravagant. No, it was more than that, it was something out of a dream, with long flowing red curtains that hid what I assumed were the only windows in the place.
Large ornate furniture that looked like it had once been in a castle before getting shipped here, in colors of blacks and deep browns that somehow all fit. A large fur rug was in the middle of what looked like a living room, framed by two couches, a fireplace, and a table that was more art work than glass.