Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I lean into the car to move her over. She’s hardly able to help herself but manages to get back into the passenger seat as she groans. I slide into the driver’s side and start the car again. I slowly pull it away from the column, and thank God it still moves. Calling my sister to get one of her men to come out and remove the car is not what I am after. The questions that would follow would fucking annoy the shit out of me, and I’d just rather torch it.
It’s just another reminder that I really should hire my own men, but personal protection has never been a necessity since I’m deadlier than most. For clean-up duties like this it comes in handy, though, which is why I usually call Anya’s men in.
Her hand touches her forehead in disbelief as I drive. She tries to wipe away the blood, but I see her tense as she looks at it in the visor mirror.
“It’s still bleeding,” she says, and tries to wipe at it again.
Leaning forward, I unbutton my shirt and slide it off. I can feel her eyes on me as I hand it to her.
“Hold it to your head.” She doesn’t take it at first. Why is she so defiant even in a situation like this? “You already wrecked my car. Now you want to get your blood all over it? Hold it to your head.” She takes it silently and lifts it to her head, wincing when she presses against the wound. “Fucking stupid, really.”
She doesn’t reply. In fact, she’s very quiet on the drive. I’d usually enjoy the peace, but coming from her, it’s uncharacteristic. I type in the code to my security gate, waiting patiently for it to open as I assess her and make sure she’s still awake.
“Where are we?” she asks.
I drive down my driveway as she looks at the yard in amazement, and I’m certain that’s because of her daze.
“I’m not going to kill you. I’ll fix you up and have someone drive you home.”
When I pull up to the house and get out of the car, I walk around and open her door for her. My jaw clenches as I get another look at the destruction she managed on the tail end of my car. I’m not overly attached to materialistic things, but it’s more the inconvenience of having to go out and buy another one that irks me. I wave for her to get out. “Get the fuck out of my car.”
She obeys, holding my shirt to her head as she slowly climbs out. The moment she does, her eyes roam down my chest and torso but then quickly look away.
She pretends she wasn’t looking by asking, “Why do you wear gloves?”
“Why the fuck do you crash a sixty-thousand-dollar car?”
She gasps. “I can’t pay you back.”
“Ohh, you’ll pay me back. Just not with cash,” I tell her and then head toward the front door. I keep an eye on her to make sure she can walk unassisted at the very least.
I’ve owned this home for five years. It’s close enough to Anya to appease her but enough out of the hustle of the city to offer me silence.
When I returned from Russia after looking for Cinita, I’d noticed my sister had hired more house staff, all of which I had to fire because I don’t like people in my home.
“I don’t want to go in there,” she whispers from behind me. She looks up at my two-story mansion as if it’s straight out of some horror film.
The twenty million dollars I spent, on the other hand, suggests it’s far from some run-down ruins.
“You will. Now, fucking move it,” I tell her, scrolling through the few contacts I have on my phone. I’ll just have Clay, one of my sister’s men, drop her off at home.
Holding open the large wooden door, I motion for her to walk in ahead of me as I flick the lights on. “To the left and into the kitchen,” I instruct. “And don’t get blood on my furniture.” She starts walking, and I look at her from behind. Her maxi dress covers her legs, which I have seen and, might I add, are fucking perfect. And her round ass, which is way more than a good fucking handful. The dress doesn’t give any of that away, but I’ve memorized it from the night at our auction two weeks ago.
“Umm, I don’t think there’s much furniture to get blood on even if I tried. Where are all your things?” she asks, looking around.
“What things?” I ask, pulling open the drawer that I know has a first aid kit in it. Beside it is a gun, and she doesn’t seem to miss it because she takes a heavy gulp as she walks in.