Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Leaving me alone with nothing but a thin little slip of a hospital gown between me and him.
I stare at his feet. He’s wearing boots. Like, cowboy boots. They’re huge black ones.
They say the size of a man’s feet can indicate—
Oh God, now is so not the time for useless trivia, Mel.
I raise my knees to my chest, making sure to pull my hospital gown down over all the way to my feet so that I’m covered up in a little mini tent.
I avert my eyes to the white bedcover.
Silence.
No, that’s not true—there’s the loud tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock on the far wall. And the anxious terror gnawing at my stomach with every second that ticks away.
Is this the part where he leaps forward and then savages me? Do I fight him or just let it happen? If what he’s saying about Dad is true, if he’s really going to be safe and free, then maybe it will all turn out okay. Just a year of my life…
But the sex. He’s so big.
Oh God, he’s going to rip me in two.
My breathing becomes erratic and I clutch my arms around my legs. If he just wants a baby, why can’t we do this in a doctor’s office, all nice and civilized? He can go make his deposit in a cup somewhere, then a doctor can spurt me full with whatever the medical equivalent of a turkey baster is. Wham bam, thank you ma’am, I’m knocked up the way God intended, in a clinic with no actual body parts touching.
No, no, no, there’s absolutely no way I can do this, right? What the hell was I thinking earlier when I signed that fucking contract?
I wasn’t thinking, I was reacting. Dad was so freaked and then there were those pictures of me and people wanting to kill Dad and—
Tick, tick, tick.
Why isn’t he saying anything? Or making a move? Oh God, I’m going to scream.
The terror builds and builds until finally, I dare to look back to the doorway.
It’s empty.
He’s gone.
What in the—? He just… left? Now what?
First off, I scurry to the bathroom and change back into my own clothes. My black Gucci pantsuit, gray blouse, and matching blazer feel shockingly comforting if not exactly comfortable. But it’s the only shield I’ve got.
Right, Mel, a whole one-millimeter thick fabric shield that Mr. Beast-dude could rip apart with one good yank if he wanted to.
So… it would be cowardly to just lock the door and hide in here as long as possible, right?
Screw cowardly.
I run forward and flip the flimsy lock on the bathroom door.
Then I stand there in the brightly lit bathroom for about five minutes until I realize that a stupid bathroom lock isn’t going to be much more of a hindrance than my Gucci suit to a guy as big as that.
So I rush out into the larger room and lock that door. Then I run to the huge mahogany dresser and try to shove it over in front of the door.
It won’t budge.
Goddammit. I lower my center of gravity by crouching low and try again.
Still nothing.
That doesn’t make sense. Sure I might not be winning any girl’s heavyweight titles in the near future, but it didn’t even budge.
Which is when I lean over and see it’s freaking bolted to the ground.
Holy crap. Did he anticipate me trying to move furniture to try to block him out of my room? Are his plans for me that horrible?
What the hell am I doing?
I can’t—
This is too—
What was I thinkin—?
I jerk the bedroom door open and fly toward the stairs. I take them two at a time, stumbling and only managing to keep upright because of my death grip on the stair railing. I jump the last three steps and then I’m over to the door, one hand on the knob.
I jerk it open, only to be greeted by the vast, empty landscape I saw earlier.
“Leave and our deal is done.”
Out of nowhere, his voice is suddenly booming so close it’s all but in my ears. I whirl but don’t see him. I turn frantically left, then right. Finally I locate him at the top of the stairwell. The sound must have carried off all the wood since there isn’t a lot of other furniture in here.
“I’ll not only bring your father back into the country,” he leans over the balustrade, his body just a silhouette in all the gathered shadows, “but I’ll drop him right on the doorstep of the men who are looking for him. The blood won’t be on my hands. He made his own bed.” His voice is cold.
Damn him.
I slam the door, wrapping my arms around myself and backing against the wall of the large foyer.
“Good choice. There’s a whole lotta nothing for thirty miles in any direction. You wouldn’t have gotten two miles before I dragged you back here.”