Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Thanks to a weak spray of light, obsidian walls cave in around the small room, where a wingback chair sits at the center. Beside it, a small table serves as a bar cart, holding a single bottle of whiskey.
His hand slips from mine and that same hollowness returns as he swipes the bottle from the table and lowers onto the chair, keeping his eyes fixed on me.
Carpet softens my steps when I move forward, making the cuts on my soles bearable. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, and the longer I stand here, the more I relax.
He traces his upper lip with his finger. “Draw me a picture.”
I pause. “What?”
He keeps the same expression trained on me, gesturing to his side. “Draw me a picture. Anything.”
“I—” I look between him and the small box of chalk.
His head tilts to the side a little. Nothing has made a lot of sense since being here, so challenging him over drawing a picture seems ridiculous.
I pluck out the first one I see and straighten. Like the river of life, the longer I’m in it, the darker it gets. Chalk powders against the wall when I press the tip against it.
“Please…” I stiffen, the intrusion of her whimper holding me in place.
“Focus on what you’re doing, Madness,” he warns with a lazy drawl.
The air tightens around my throat. “What am I supposed to draw?” It’s probably not a good time to tell him I’m not an artist. I can barely draw a stick man.
The leather of his chair complains when he shifts. “Whatever you want.”
“You said you loved me…” The girl behind me sobs.
“Oh, but I do.” I’ve never heard him be this soft. “Spread your legs.”
My hand stops as curiosity burns through my body like live wire. I turn to the side, enough to see what’s happening.
“Like this?” Sugar drips from her demure tone. Gone is the girl who was begging for her life. She widens her legs as the chandelier above exposes the pale color of her naked body sprawled out at his feet.
Out of instinct, my eyes fly to his. Relaxed in his throne and wearing nothing but unbuckled jeans and Jordans, he holds my stare. “Yes. Like that.” He finally looks to the girl.
Long brown hair falls around curves you’d find on models, and judging by the swell of her side-boob, it’s clear she likes a visit with the good surgeon.
She must be older. There’s no way she’s anywhere near my or Priest’s age.
“Touch yourself.”
His words knock the air out of my lungs.
She smirks, turning over her shoulder a little, just enough for me to catch it. I don’t know what she’s smiling at. I’m not sure I’d want Priest’s attention if this is the kind he gives the girls he likes.
French-manicured fingers find the spot between her legs, and I force myself back to my picture. I don’t want to explore the reasons why he’s making her do this with me in the room. I’m not sure I want to know. She moans softly, and before I get my head stuck in what the hell is happening, I start scribbling in a flurry of white and black until chalk shavings stain my hands.
I step back and examine the mess. A simple heart with jagged edges through the middle. I should have told him that I couldn’t draw. It’s missing something—probably a far better artist.
I continue anyway. I thought you loved me.
“Priest,” her desperation rings out behind me. “I need you. Please. I want you.”
I’d laugh if I didn’t find it so sad. The recklessness of her desperation landed her at the Devil’s feet when I’m sure she wanted his lap.
Frost forms down my spine when I catch him staring, and the chalk slips from my fingers as panic floods through me. Why is he watching me and not her? I can’t break away from him to pick it up, afraid that if I do, he’ll use that time to kill me.
Or worse. He won’t, and the past year has merely been an introduction to the hell I am about to endure.
He shifts forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, forcing the muscles in his shoulders to flex. “How long have we been dating, Cassie?”
Cassie’s eyes sparkle, but her hips continue to thrust in circles to chase the rhythm of her fingers. “Four months.”
He focuses on me. “And how did we meet, Cassie?”
“At a bar. What are you doing? I thought you said this was going to be fun in here!”
Confusion rattles me backward, but it’s short-lived when he angles himself forward, his knuckles browsing over her cheek. “You wanna come?”
“Yes—” Her lips part as she continues to work herself up. Her knees widen as her breath quickens, sweat drowning her chest as it rises and falls.
He brushes his lips against hers, and my heart skips a beat. I shouldn’t be watching. I should turn around and pretend to finish my drawing.