Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Somehow, a sober Xavier scares me more than one who’s high.
He’s also laser focused, and when I try to jerk back, his fingers tighten, digging into the hinge of my jaw and locking me in place.
“Now tell me,” he purrs. His breath on my face feels foul. “You’re looking flushed, Miss Grey.” His gaze dips down, and I realize—oh God. My nipples are pressing hard against my shirt, roused by thoughts of seeing Micah. His hateful green eyes drift back to my face. “Is there something on your mind besides work, Miss Grey?”
Sweet Jesus, no.
Not anymore.
Also, it's bizarre how they both call me Miss Grey, but it feels so different.
With Xavier, it’s revolting.
Hissing, I jerk back, wrenching free from his grip.
My cheeks throb where his fingers dug in.
“Don’t touch me again,” I whisper as firmly as I can, but my chest is starting to seize up. My voice comes out weak from not enough air.
He eyeballs me with a face like stone.
I want to say so much worse. I want to scream and rake my nails across his eyes. But I’m alone here, and there’s no telling what he might do if I actually put up a fight.
I swallow hard, reaching deep for diplomatic words he doesn’t deserve.
“Since you seem so distracted, Mr. Arrendell, we can continue this discussion l-later,” I whisper.
I don’t look at him as I gather up my books, hugging them against my chest as a shield and backing away.
I still want to scream obscenities for what he did and quit on the spot, but I think about Grandpa and how much he needs this money.
“I’ll email you my thoughts,” I bite off, my voice arctic.
Xavier watches with a sort of sick amusement, sinking back in his power chair. He smirks, and I feel like he’s looking right through my clothes, stripping me naked with his eyes.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay, Miss Grey?”
I’m going to vomit, if I don’t kill him first.
I need to get the hell out of here.
I need to go now, before I either puke or have an asthma attack, and I turn quickly on my heel.
“Definitely not,” I wheeze out.
Then I pull his office door open and bolt into the hall.
I know I shouldn’t be running with this tightness in my lungs, but I can’t stop it.
I know the way now.
I don’t need Joseph or any hired help showing me out. I dash down the lurid red carpet and weave through the shadows, diving into the foyer with every breath coming thinner and thinner.
My head throbs, blurring my vision.
Oh no, oh no, I can’t.
Not here. Not with him.
I manage to wrench the massive doors open and go tumbling outside.
Bright sunlight.
Open air.
Safety.
I suck in a few rattling breaths, trying to make my lungs work.
Staggering forward, I drop down on the top step. My sample books go clattering across stone. I thunk my bag into my lap, pawing frantically for my inhaler.
There—there it is—and I rip the cap off, push it into my mouth, depress the plunger, and breathe.
Mist floods my lungs.
I inhale in the practiced way I learned so many years ago. My vision keeps swimming while I wait for improvement.
I can’t believe I almost lost it because this creeper grabbed my face.
No—it’s more than that. It’s everything tied up in this mess with Xavier, Micah, the Jacobins, the dead man.
Whenever I’m around Xavier, I’m reminded how dangerous he can be. That it’s not just a man creeping on a woman with hideously inappropriate advances.
It’s a man who might hurt me with no qualms about it.
No matter how I try this subterfuge thing, I can’t pretend I don’t know what I do.
Worse, he seems to enjoy how uncomfortable he makes me, even if he doesn’t know all the reasons why.
The help from my inhaler nearly fails me the instant the doors bang open at my back, smashing against the stone like a gunshot.
My eyes snap open.
With a small scream, I’m clutching at my chest.
“Miss Grey!” Xavier yells at my back.
Oh God.
I’m too busy pumping my inhaler to turn around.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, why did he follow me?
His footsteps draw closer.
“Please,” he says urgently. “If you need medical assistance—”
I cut him off, holding up a hand as I gasp.
I take several breaths, slow and measured, before I speak again.
“No, I’m… I’m f-fine.”
“Are you?” When my eyes can focus and I look up, he’s bent over me—and shocker of shockers, the concern in his eyes seems genuine.
“Forgive me. I didn’t dare mean to trigger your condition. I never meant to cross that line.”
That line?
That flipping line?
I’m one second away from gouging out his eyes after all, asthma or not.
There’s no mistaking what just happened.
He meant to cross every line.
I guess he just thought I’d jump at the chance to ride him like every poor girl who’s hooked up with him for his drugs or for his money or both. Ugh.