Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
His jaw works. “You were never going to be my property. If I wanted to own a toy, I’d buy one.”
My eyebrows quirk up. “You kind of bought me.”
He doesn’t like that. His hand shoots out, tangling into my hair, and I gasp softly. I’m reminded why I shouldn’t mess with this guy. His grip is firm, but he’s not pulling. Not yet anyway. “I know what you’re doing,” he whispers, coming closer.
My heart’s racing. “I’m only asserting my right to use whatever name I choose.”
“You’re working me up. You’re not happy you chose this situation, and you’re taking it out on me.” His lips graze my neck. I let out an absolutely mortifying groan, considering Fitz is like two feet away and can hear everything.
“I wouldn’t say I chose it. More like I was forced into it.”
“You were given the option. Nobody made you do anything.”
“I seem to recall a big, strong asshole throwing me over his shoulder.”
His grip tightens. “You’re fucking with me again.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so gullible.”
He chuckles as his tongue licks my jaw. “Nobody outside of this car would ever dare call me that, and yet you throw it around like it means nothing.”
“Sorry, did I hurt your poor little shrewd businessman pride? Didn’t mean to. Let go of my hair.”
“When it comes to you, my angel, you’re right. I am gullible. I’ve fallen once, and I think I’ll keep on falling, and if you want to use that against me then there’s nothing I can do about it.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “But don’t mistake my sincerity for you as weakness.” His grip tightens—then he lets me go.
My stomach grinds with anxiety. I lace my fingers together in my lap, hoping he won’t notice them shaking. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going. Why did we get married at the mansion if we weren’t staying there?”
“Because the judge was playing golf nearby and the lawyer has an office ten minutes away. And now we’re going home.”
“Home,” I repeat, staring at him. “Not my home.”
“Yes, it will be. You’re my wife now.” He folds back into himself as some of that psychotic attention of his dissipates. The tension clears, but I can still feel his mouth on my chin. Close to my lips.
What is it about this man?
Am I pressing his buttons because I actually like how worked up he gets over me? Do I actually enjoy this crazy act he’s got going on right now?
He seems absolutely over the moon that we’re married, like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like making me his wife is the culmination of his life’s work.
But it doesn’t make any sense.
If all he needs is a wife to make him more respectable once he takes over as head of his family, why choose me? I’m sure there is a long line of willing women out there, many of whom have better family names than I do. I’m pretty sure I’ll be nothing more than a liability—the upper echelons of Boston nobility will raise their noses at a poor girl from a minor nobody gangster clan.
No, I’m going to be a problem for him.
So why is he acting like I’m perfect?
Before I can ask him, the car rolls down a beautiful little street in Beacon Hill. It’s a gorgeous, flower-strewn corner of the city with blooming trees and expensive cars tucked against the curbs. A single spot’s open in front of a brick-front row home with a black door and bars over the lower windows. Fitz parallel parks with ease then kills the engine.
“Here we are,” Carson says, gazing past me.
The house with the bars. My future home, my prison. “What’s with the security?” I ask, trying to make light of it, but his is the only house that looks like a maximum-security penitentiary.
“I have a very complicated profession. As it turns out, people want to kill me from time to time. I’ve made certain concessions to my lifestyle. The bars are simply the most visible aspect of my security system. Shall we?” He gets out, comes around, and opens the door for me.
I join him, my legs trembling as I follow up the stoop. He unlocks the door with a key card then steps past the threshold. Fancy and high-tech. Before I can follow, he turns, swoops me into his arms, and carries me in.
“What the hell are you doing?” Panic slams into my chest. “Put me down, you crazy asshole!”
“I’m bringing my wife into our new home. Isn’t it customary to carry you over the threshold?”
“You can’t just—pick me up like that. You’ve done it twice today.”
“You’re surprisingly easy to carry.”
“Surprisingly? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that your reflexes are pathetic.” He smiles to himself. “Really, I thought you would’ve put up more of a fight.”