Total pages in book: 175
Estimated words: 164346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
He pulls a picture out of the pocket of his Armani suit jacket and slides it across the black surface. “Here is your first assignment.”
Picking it up, I look it over but quickly lift my eyes to him once again. “What about her?” I ask confused.
“She is to be yours.”
My gift—a chosen one.
Freshman year, we all took an oath, knowing that we all might not make it. During our senior year, we are rewarded for our servitude with sex. We’re allowed to take more than one chosen one. We can share her with the other Lords if we’d like. It happens a lot. I don’t know how many damn orgies I’ve watched over the past three years. There are no rules for us once we take on a chosen. Only for the women. If they accept—they have to willingly take the oath to belong to us—then they are ours. If a friend wants her for a night, we have the power to say yes or no. But if they are caught stepping out, they are punished. Humiliation is key.
I snort at his answer and throw the picture down. “No, seriously.”
His light brown eyes just stare at me, jaw set in a hard line. The man looks too young to be in the position that he has. Not many wrinkles and in good shape, a full head of dark hair that he keeps slicked back. But that’s a Lord for you. We put all the hard work in during our first three years of college. Once we graduate from Barrington, we rule.
I look away, running my hand through my hair, and choose my words differently. “She doesn’t belong to me.”
“She does … for now.” The man nods once.
She’s a junior this year at Barrington. I know her but have never spoken to her. No reason to. Like I said, she doesn’t belong to me. Releasing a sigh at his silence, I pick it back up. She stands in the middle of a parking lot next to her white Audi R8. Staring down at her cell, she’s oblivious that someone is watching her, taking pictures of her. She wears a pair of low-cut jeans and a white T-shirt. Her dark hair is down, the wind blowing it in her face.
“This has to be wrong,” I urge, shaking my head. “She is …”
“Are you denying a direct order?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.
I grind my teeth. “No. It’s just …”
“Good.” He stands, ripping the picture from my hands. “Do what must be done and make it happen.”
Nodding my head, I stand as well. “Yes, sir.” Then I turn and exit his office, knowing that I’ll do whatever must be done.
Blakely Anderson will be mine!
BLAKELY
I’M PRACTICALLY RUNNING down the hallway trying to find my first class. Books in one hand, my schedule in the other. My bag has fallen off my shoulder and sits in the crook of my arm. Coming to where I think I’m supposed to be, I stop at the door, and my shoulders fall.
Room 125
I’m supposed to go to room 152. “Ugh.” I throw my head back. “Son of a bitch.”
This is my junior year at Barrington University, so you would think I’d know the college by now, but I don’t. This place is the size of a large city, spanning over three thousand acres. Over twenty buildings hold the classes, plus apartments and houses because they don’t have dorms here. That’s not acceptable for the rich.
I spin around to head in a different direction but hit a brick wall. The impact throws me back onto my ass. The books go flying along with my paper and bag.
“Watch where you’re fucking going!”
I look up from the floor to see a man standing in front of me. Emerald eyes so dark they’re almost frighteningly glare down at me. His dark brown hair is trimmed shorter on the sides, and the longer pieces on top are unkempt, giving it that messy, “I just rolled out of bed” look. He’s got a straight nose, and there’s a tic in his chiseled, smooth jaw. He’s dressed in dark denim jeans that hug his thighs, a black T-shirt shows off his broad shoulders and muscular arms, and tennis shoes. Ryat Archer stands there looking every bit pissed off as he does every second of every day.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pushing my glasses back on my nose. I was running too late this morning to take the time to screw with my contacts. They hate me.
Reaching out my hand, I wait for him to grab it and help me up.
He uncrosses his arms and shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, letting me know I’m on my own. His eyes drop to my chest, and he tilts his head to the side as they continue down over my stomach and bare legs. Slowly, he takes in my T-shirt and jean shorts. My breathing picks up, and fear creeps along my spine like a spider crawling on my skin. He looks at me like I’m a problem he needs to take care of. Something in his way to conquering the world.