Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Gently, he unzips my jacket and helps me into a sitting position. I’m reluctant to let him remove the jacket. It’s thin and not much protection against the cold, but I chose it as a fashion statement, not for practicality. I wasn’t going to take it off tonight. Leaving it open to show a glimpse of the camisole I wear underneath was as far as I was planning on undressing, but he doesn’t look at the purple lace covering my breasts as he brushes the leather over my shoulders and down my arms.
With a palm on my chest, he pushes me back down. My skin contracts with goosebumps. He works like earlier, when he was hunting for my pills, removing my heels with the quiet efficiency of a man who knows what he’s doing. He leaves my shoes neatly next to the bed and pulls the blanket over me. It’s soft and warm. The clean smell lures me into relaxing, letting my muscles sag into the lumpy mattress.
“Rest,” he says, dragging a thumb over my jaw. “Close your eyes. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Chapter 4
Cas
I wake with a start. It’s pitch-black. The lamp is off, and the door is closed.
I listen. The house is quiet. It could be morning or night. With the wooden board nailed over the window, I can’t tell. What I do know is that the old, abandoned farmhouse is a hideout.
Quietly, I take stock of my situation. I feel stronger. The pain in my chest is gone. The physical symptoms of my heart condition have vanished, but the fear is still there. The fear is a smoldering coal in my stomach.
If Ian wanted to kill me, he could’ve simply let my heart to do job, unless he has other plans for me, a terrifying factor I haven’t eliminated yet.
Even wounded, he’s a gladiator compared to me. He’s proven that much when he hijacked a car and made me drive us out here with a bullet in his shoulder. I can’t beat him in strength. I’ll have to fight clever. I’ll do like a grasshopper that plays dead when a frog strikes. I’ll fake a heart-attack if he tries anything. Hopefully, he’ll leave me here for dead. Hopefully, he won’t burn down the house with my undead body inside.
Oh, God. I scrub my eyes with the heels of my palms. Stupid idea. Of course he’ll know if I’m not dead.
I can’t lie here for a moment longer working myself up by imagining what he has in store for me. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he took the car and left me here.
Throwing the blanket aside, I swing my legs over the bed. My bare feet hit the floor. Sand tickles my soles. The concrete floor is dirty, but I don’t put on my shoes. My high heels are too loud. I tiptoe to the door by feeling my way along the wall.
To my dismay, the door creaks when I open it. My stomach knots with tension. Light spills from the kitchen, but no sounds come from anywhere in the house. In the light that pours into the room, I scan the bed for my jacket, but it’s not there.
With my heart beating in my throat, I make my way down the hallway. The two other doors stand open. On the left is another bedroom, this one empty, and on the right a bathroom. There’s no way out but through the kitchen.
I pause in the frame. Disappointment slams like a fist into my ribs. Ian sits at the kitchen table, reading a book. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of faded jeans and his boots. The medical supplies have been cleared, and the table, chair, and floor are clean of blood. The air smells of bleach. He must’ve scrubbed the room.
I hover, uncertain when he doesn’t react. Did he notice me?
He finishes the page he’s reading, closes the book, and lifts his head. His assessment of me is quick but thorough. I get the impression he takes everything in with the blink of an eye, that he can tell a stranger’s secrets with one look.
“Come here,” he says, leaning back in the chair. Under the table, his legs are stretched out wide in front of him, but the relaxed pose doesn’t fool me. He’s alert, ready to strike at any moment.
At my hesitation, the corner of his mouth lifts. “There’s nowhere to run, baby doll.”
He’s not only assessing. He’s also predicting. Whatever move I may make, I’ve lost before I’ve tried. That’s what he’s telling me with that semblance of a smile.
I look around for the gun, but it’s nowhere in sight. Still, I don’t move.
“Already told you,” he says, “I’m not going to bite.” The feet of the chair scrape over the floor as he pushes away from the table. His words are more pronounced, the command in them a little stronger when he says, “Come here.”