Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I shove the tray away and hop off the bed, wincing as pain radiates up my back with the movement. I ignore the discomfort and cross the room to stare out the window. I can only see the perfect sloping lawn from here. It's a clear sunny day, probably cold, not that I would know since I haven’t left this room.
The thought alone sends a wave of fury through me. I was kidnapped...and… I refuse to think about the rest. But if I’m his wife, then why is he locking me up like I’m a criminal?
Something in my mind pings. Because that’s what you are. A criminal.
No. No. No.
I shove it away like I usually do before a wash of guilt accompanies the thought.
The door to the bedroom opens, but I don't bother turning around to see who it is this time. "I'm done, you can take the tray if you want." I clench my fists, and breathe out a slow breath, hating how it comes out choppy, stuttered.
I’m home again. I’m home and safe.
The desire to scream almost consumes me, the pit of despair swirls in my gut, and I clench my hands into tight fists, fighting back against it. I remind myself that this isn't Sebastian's friends’ fault. They are helping. Everyone is trying to help.
I squeeze my eyes closed and rein in the anger that seems to fill me for hours at a time.
"I’m not here to collect your tray." A deep voice that I know all too well sends shivers up my spine. I spin as it registers, finding Sebastian standing near the end of the bed, staring down at the tray.
“Then why are you here? I didn’t ask to see you.” I try my best to sound as angry as I feel, but what I really want is to run into his arms and let him hold me. The anger is fading. Damnit.
“You never have to ask to see me, and even if you can’t see me I’m always watching you. Always making sure you’re taken care of.”
“Creepy, but okay.”
“Which leads me to my next question. You haven’t been eating; why?”
I blink and look up at him. Damn. Why does he always have to look like that? Like he walked off the front page of GQ Magazine. His black slacks are perfectly pressed and paired with a crisp white dress shirt. His leather shoes are so shiny I can damn near see my reflection in them. He’s put together far better than me, minus his blonde hair which is mussed, shoved to the side like he's been running his fingers through it.
Red hot jealousy slices through me. Who is doing his laundry? Cleaning his room?
The other day I wanted nothing to do with him, and now I’m angry about the prospect of someone else doing my job. About someone else touching his things, taking care of him.
I’m losing my damn mind.
"Who is doing your laundry?" My cheeks burn hot, and I pray he doesn’t notice. Who am I kidding? He notices everything. I can’t believe I asked such a stupid question.
The small tilt of his lips flashing into the hint of a smile stirs the embers of desire. The need to touch him overwhelms me so I wrap my arms around my middle and stare at him instead. I have to resist the temptation.
He’s bad for you, bad for everyone.
"The housekeeper has been doing the laundry, both mine and yours."
That makes sense. Sure. Carey is great.
"Any other burning questions in that brain of yours?" He asks, sitting—no sprawling—off the end of the bed.
I retreat toward the window, the sill bumping my back. "I...no..."
"Good," he stands suddenly and moves toward me, but I skitter to the side, putting my back into the corner. He freezes in place, cocks his head to the side, and examines me. Oh no. I don’t want him staring at me. He'll see everything. The way I've been biting my cuticles until they bleed, the dark circles under my eyes because I can't sleep. The couple of pounds I've likely lost because of my refusal to eat.
I miss him, even if parts of me hate him. Hate him for what he’s done to us.
"Ely," he prods gently, like I'm some kind of wounded animal, and I don't know why that hurts more. Is that how he sees me now? As a victim? No, that’s wrong—he called me a survivor. I’m a survivor, but I don’t feel like it.
Closing my eyes, I sink to the floor. "What do you want, Sebastian?"
I feel the air move around me. His scent fills my nostrils, and I breathe him in, breathing that clean warm scent into my lungs. My tongue darts out over my bottom lip. I want to kiss him, taste him. Even if I don't want to want him, there is no denying the desire gnawing at my bones.