Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Perceptive. She is very much well and truly fucked. Proper fucked.
I remember what Julius said earlier. “Your brother—”
A small amount of fire burns in Alejandra’s eyes when she turns to face me and cuts me off with, “My brother would walk through the fires of hell if I told him it would help me.” She shakes her head lightly. “He’s a good man. I won’t do that to him. I won’t cost him his life.”
Maybe Julius wasn’t completely addled to suggest Alejandra might be valuable. She knows the life. No doubt, in her position from her throne, she saw things, heard things that may be of significance to us. I try my luck with an important statement, but offset its importance by telling it in complete boredom. “You’re right. You’re totally fucked.” I shrug limply. “That is, unless of course, you can prove yourself useful.”
Her body turns rigid next to mine. She blinks up at me with her soft brown eyes, wide with a false innocence, long lashes fluttering in an attempt to feign confusion. But those doe eyes of hers… they’re calculating as fuck. “Useful? Useful how?”
I smirk on the inside.
Oh my, Alejandra. What secrets do you carry in the pretty little mind o’ yours?
I slide off the covers to stand by the bed. “It doesn’t matter. Like you said—” I turn to the door, walking toward it, smiling cruelly. “—you’re already dead.”
As I reach the doorway, I hear the covers shift, and she asks a panicked, “Wait! You’re still going to kill me, right?”
“Nah.” Over my shoulder, I throw her a sadistic smirk. “I’ve decided to throw you to the wolves.”
A look of intense fury crosses her face. Her face flashes, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, and those pretty doe eyes blaze furiously as she grits her teeth, reaches to the side of the bed, picking up the Swarovski crystal vase of white budding roses, rearing back and throwing it at me as hard as she can while letting out a string of Hispanic curses.
I don’t blink as the vase connects with the doorframe by the left side of my head, smashing into tiny pieces. The curses continue and my eyes hood as my heart beats faster. Inappropriate timing, I know. Feelings of heat and lust coil up inside of me, and I bite my lip to quell my sudden arousal.
Alejandra must see the change in me, because the lips on her lovely, flushed face stop moving and she watches me closely in puzzlement.
Making a show of eyeing her tight, petite body, images of this wounded bird pressing her lush, soft lips against mine replay over and over inside of my head, and I warn her quietly, “Don’t ever fight me.” Her brows furrow, and to make things clear, I add, “Not unless you want to fuck me. Is that clear enough for you, Mrs. Gambino?”
“Castillo,” she corrects, the fury in the gaze ebbing away.
I take in what she said, tilt my head and question, “I beg your pardon?”
She lays down on the bed once more, her back to me and utters a hard, “Don’t ever call me a Gambino.” Softer then, she adds, “I’ll be a Castillo till the day I die.”
Well, now we’re getting somewhere.
That did not sound like a statement from a devoted wife, let alone one who loved her husband. I knew there was something fucky about Dino and Alejandra from the moment I saw them together, but I seemed to be the only person who did—apart from Miguel Castillo, that is. They seemed too perfect, too put together. It was disgusting, really. To anyone else, they came across the doting couple, but to me, the air about them was unnatural. Forced. They were nothing but show.
I repeat her words. “Till the day you die.” My eyes dance. “Won’t be long now.”
Her tone resigned, she allows, “No. It won’t.”
And something about the way she says this makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
When I realize I’ve been standing at the doorway, watching Alejandra lie on the bed in complete silence for over a minute, I spin and stride up the hall and down the stairs, my heels clicking underneath me.
Julius stands from his seated position on the sofa, and I twirl in front of him, turning my back on him, moving my hair out of the way. Without skipping a beat, he gently unzips my dress down to the small of my back and asks, “Well?”
Here I am, a man-eater, with the silky skin of my bare back exposed to this beautiful man, and all he asks is, ‘Well?’
I have to remind myself this is Julius, and Julius never lets me play. He has never led me on or made promises. He’s kind of boring. I don’t even know why I want his meat in my mouth. I’ll just have to find my own source of amusement when all of this is over, preferably in the form of a man whose dick is so big it hurts. Until then, I have my fingers and my precious showerhead. Adjustable spray.