Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
“What are you doing trespassing in the middle of the fucking night?” he retorted, his voice calm and tired.
He’d changed into a white designer V-neck and a pair of dark denim pants or jeans. I didn’t need to see them to know they hung low on his body.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d read a little. Never mind.” I spun around, heading back toward the hallway.
He stopped me. “Help.” His voice was firm. I halted, but didn’t turn around. “Grab a book. I promise not to make conversation.”
I rubbed my thighs and mentally scoffed at the idea of joining him. Especially after how he’d acted in the car.
“I’m resigning,” I said, my back still to him. It was easier that way. I always caved when his eyes held mine. “I can’t do what you’re asking me to do. Please don’t try and threaten me with my parents or Rosie or with starting a third World War. I’ve made up my mind. I can’t lie for you.”
I heard the squeak of his chair as he got up, and I closed my eyes. I knew my resolve was going to crack with every step he took in my direction. Because stupidly, I still felt things for Vicious. Things I had no business feeling.
He stopped when he was standing in front of me. I felt his heat rolling toward my body. I felt my body accepting the warmth, drinking it in, enjoying it, despite what he’d done to me.
“Open your eyes,” he ordered.
I did. We stared at each other for a few seconds. His eyes were still on mine when he slowly peeled his shirt off of his ripped body. I kept my glare on his black pupils, too afraid to drop my gaze. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen a male torso at such close proximity.
But it definitely would be the first time I’d seen Vicious’s.
His white tee landed on the floor with barely a sound. I was hyper-aware the fabric near my bare feet in my flip-flops.
“Look down,” he instructed softly.
My eyes drifted south, my gaze slow and wary, taking in the perfect porcelain skin of his neck and shoulders, until I landed on his chest. He was hard-muscled and pumped…and covered with scars. Some pink. Some white. All of them old and faded. Long scars. Short scars. Deep scars. Shallow scars. There were many, too many, like a subway window that had been abused over the years. He looked like someone had doodled on his stomach and chest with a Swiss-made knife.
Bile rose up my throat, and I clamped my lips together, feeling my chin quivering.
“Remember when I used to arrange the fights at my tennis court?” he asked, his voice unruffled. “I’m not gonna lie. Part of it was for fun, to unwind. But the other part, Help, was because I didn’t want people to ask questions about my scars.” He lifted both his arms, showing me the front of his wrists and forearms.
Covered with more scars.
I’d noticed them before, of course, but I’d bought the lie. I’d thought the fights were to blame.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. His scars somehow felt like they were on me. My skin burned for him. “Jo did this to you?”
“No.” He ran his tongue over his front teeth. “Her brother, Daryl Ryler, the guy you saw in this library that first day. Jo didn’t cut me. After she first married my dad, she just smacked me around. A lot. And then Ryler moved here when I was twelve…” He hesitated, but it didn’t look like he was having too much trouble getting the words out. His face was still as emotionless as ever, his speech low and firm. “She’d lock the door from the outside and leave him to ‘punish me.’”
I sucked in a ragged breath. I wanted to kill that woman. Even after everything he’d done to me, I wanted his stepmother to die. Then something else occurred to me.
“Did your dad know?”
“I told him, but he was never around much. His business was always his focus. Then, after I got expelled from boarding school and was back here, Jo convinced him I was hurting myself. Cutting. All the rage with ‘troubled’ kids like me. She even hired a psychiatrist to assess me. One chosen by her, of course. There was talk of sending me off somewhere for treatment. So I learned to keep my mouth shut until eventually I was big and strong enough to fight back. I was sixteen.”
My eyes ran over his torso frantically. Shame crawled into me when I realized it wasn’t only sorrow I felt. Butterflies flung their tiny wings in my chest and my nipples puckered. I liked what I was seeing. He was perfectly imperfect. Flawlessly flawed. Most importantly—he was Vicious.