Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Today, we’ll tackle dangling modifiers,” Dan says, and I suppress a groan.
Why? Why does anyone give a shit about this? Who cares if the modifier dangles—whatever that means?
Nevertheless, I dutifully follow along as Dan goes over what constitutes a “modifier” and why it’s a bad thing when it “dangles.” I think I’m starting to get it. Maybe. It’s such a boring topic that even though Dan talks with the enthusiasm of an auctioneer hyping up a priceless painting, I have to fight the urge to yawn. To help myself concentrate, I stare at Dan’s freckled hands as he waves them about, specifically at the big, gaudy ring on his right middle finger. It’s one of those class or club rings. Dan’s is from a Yale fraternity, and he must be really proud that he’s an alum because he wears the stupid thing all the time.
The sounds of voices in the hallway reach my ears, distracting me for a moment. Does Papa have guests again?
“Here,” Dan says, bringing my attention back to him. “See if you can find the dangling modifiers and fix them.” He slides a sheet of paper across the table toward me.
I sigh and begin reading the sentences printed on it. Being a princess, her hands were pretty and white. That looks fine to me. Unless… does that imply that it’s her hands that are a princess? Yeah, maybe that’s a dangling modifier. I circle the offending part of the sentence and write in the blank space below: Being a princess, she has hands that are pretty and white.
Yep. That sounds better. Nailed it.
I go through a few more examples, and when I look up, Dan is staring at me with drool running down his chin. Okay, not literally, but that’s basically what his expression is saying. Which is just ridiculous because I’m not wearing any makeup, my hair is in a messy bun, and my clothes are completely shapeless. Mama would have a fit if she saw me like this, but I’m doing Dan a favor.
I really don’t want him to end up in a hospital or worse.
“What?” I snap when he continues staring, and he blinks like a startled frog.
“Oh, nothing. Just—you have something on your cheek.”
I do? I rub my left cheek. “Better now?”
“No, it’s the other—here.” Before I can react, he reaches across the table and touches my other cheek. “Just this tiny bit of lint that’s—”
With a faint squeak of hinges, the library door behind me swings open, and Dan jerks back as if stung by a jellyfish. Thank God. I’m not a violent person, but I was about to slap his hand away.
I turn around in my chair, expecting to see Mama checking up on us, but instead, I meet a pair of near-black eyes that have been on my mind more times since last summer than I’d care to admit.
“Excuse me,” Alexei Leonov says evenly. “I didn’t realize this room was occupied.”
Unlike the last time I saw him, he’s dressed casually, in a pair of dark jeans and a black T-shirt, the crewneck collar of which reveals a portion of a tattoo snaking up the side of his neck. A T-shirt, in the dead of winter. Did he take off his sweater along with his coat, or does he think he’s immune to the freezing cold outside? My gaze falls on his tan, muscular arms, decorated with intricate tattoos as well, and my breath quickens, my heart taking on a heavy, thumping rhythm. Belatedly, I register that underneath one of those arms, he’s holding a laptop—likely his reason for seeking out this room with its comfortable table and chairs.
Except… why would he work on his laptop in our library? Or be in our penthouse, for that matter?
How deep does Papa’s newfound friendship with the Leonovs go?
Returning my gaze to Alexei’s face, I lift my chin and say as coolly as I can manage, “It is occupied, as you can see.”
I expect him to be looking at me, but he’s not. It’s Dan who commands his attention.
Dan, who’s turned so red that his freckles are barely visible.
“W-we’re in the middle of an English lesson,” he stutters out in awkwardly accented Russian. “So if you d-don’t mind…”
Alexei doesn’t move. His hard features are expressionless, but whatever Dan sees in his eyes makes my tutor’s face shift from the color of boiled lobster to that of a drowned cadaver.
Normally, I’d revel in Dan’s discomfort, but right now, the hair on my nape rises. Because I feel it. Menace. It rolls off Alexei in waves. That sense of danger, of barely leashed violence, is so palpable I already smell blood in the air.
I have no idea what’s happening or why, but I know I have to put a stop to it. Now. Before that violence is unleashed. My heart thuds audibly against my ribcage as I say, “You can leave now.”