Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 72056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I gear myself up and jog the last several—damn, it’s fourteen—floors. The same key gets me out of the stairwell and onto the top floor of the hotel.
The hallway is carpeted in blood red, and the wallpaper is black and white stripes. It’s oddly glamourous—something I might have gone for myself. I can’t see Rogan choosing it, but he probably had a professional decorator. Only a few doors line the walls of the hallway. Of course. His penthouse takes up most of this floor. Maybe all of it.
I dart my gaze down the hall. If I were an alpha wolf’s penthouse, where would I be?
If only I could remember more of the time I spent up here.
I inhale—
And I know. I follow the familiar wolf scent to the last door on the right. A lock and a keypad greet me. Easy enough. I try the keys until I find a match and unlock the deadbolt. Then I push in the numbers the security guard gave me.
The door clicks open.
And I enter.
18
I look around, my jaw nearly on the floor.
This place is amazing. What’s more amazing is how little I recall of my time here. I was so into Victor Rogan that I took nothing else in.
And boy, is there a lot to take in.
The carpeting is plush and blood red, but all I see is my tattered T-shirt, my bra cut in two, and my thong in pieces.
In my mind, I mean.
Because that’s what happened the last time I was in this penthouse. I don’t remember the blood red carpeting. I don’t remember the black lacquer baby grand in one corner. I don’t remember the black and white leather furniture and the coffee table of pure glass. I don’t remember the dark wood bar and the top shelf liquor on the marble shelving behind it.
Man, I could totally live here.
Out of curiosity, I head to the kitchen. Black and white marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. An island with bar stools. The refrigerator reaches to the ceiling, and without thinking, I open it.
I gasp.
Among Rogan’s gourmet delights is a container.
A container marked Hannah.
Already I know what’s inside. It’s blood.
My God. He knew I’d come here.
I open the container and inhale. It’s not Rogan’s blood. Or maybe it is. Would it smell different if it’s not fresh?
No, it can’t be his. No way would an alpha were drain his own damned blood for me. Besides, it doesn’t even hint at a wolf scent. It’s human, though. He probably got it at a blood bank. I take a few quick gulps to stave off any blood lust that’s bound to creep up as I search this place. As anyone would suspect, his scent is thick here.
Really thick.
I take another gulp of the red liquid and then replace the container in the fridge.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
I jerk backward, looking over my shoulder. Rogan. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of old jeans. His dark hair is in a mass of tangled waves flowing over his beefy shoulders.
And his eyes. Those irises are still swirling.
I keep my cool, thanks to the few swallows of blood. “You were expecting me.”
“I was.”
“And the bomb threat?”
“Manufactured, as you’ve obviously guessed.”
“Maybe I just like to live on the wild side.”
“I’m sure you do, princess, but I’m also pretty sure you’re not all that eager to have that gorgeous ass of yours blown to bits.”
His words spike between my legs. Gorgeous ass. Damn, he’s the one with a gorgeous ass. It’s delectable in those jeans, and I’m willing to bet he’s going commando too. Unless he keeps extra underwear around for any unforeseen shifting.
“What’s with the bomb thing?” I ask. “You’ll lose a shitload of money, shutting down the casino for a few hours.”
His eyes darken as he gestures around his multi-million dollar kitchen. “Do I look like I need any more money?”
“Why do it, then?”
“Why else? So you could come in here unimpeded and find what you’re looking for.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe I already did, Rogan. Maybe I’m looking for you.”
He closes the short distance between us, trails a finger over the swell of my breasts. “We both know Daddy sent you here, princess.”
“I never said—”
“Please. Give me a little credit.” His finger travels over my nipple, making it even harder than it already is. “I haven’t seen you anywhere near the blackjack or roulette tables.”
I swallow, summoning all my strength not to shudder at his touch. “Tell me. Tell me what made you change.”
He narrows his eyes, and I can’t tell whether it’s anger or passion clouding them.
“I don’t talk about the change,” he says, “especially to impudent little half-vamps.”
I force myself to take a step backward. “Impudent? You want to go there? After you told that moron Blaze Delacourt that I wasn’t worth the effort?”