Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“I get it,” I rush, heart hammering in my chest as I glare. “Fake faces on, but you have to know, no one in our world is going to believe this is real. No one has ever even seen us together.”
“Oh, they’ve seen.” He sits back in his seat, his hands falling to his lap. “What do you think I’ve been doing these last few days?”
“Your girlfriend.”
His brows crash instantly, and he opens his mouth, but the car rolls to a stop and he looks over to see we’ve arrived at the restaurant. When they come back to me, they’re harder this time. “You’re not wrong.”
I know I said the words myself, yet shock still jolts through me. I swallow thickly, hating this man is getting the better of me right now.
The door is opened, and Enzo wastes no time climbing out.
I don’t even care when it swings shut behind him, locking me inside by myself. I take the moment to close my eyes and drag in a deep breath. “Do not murder your fake husband, Boston. It will not end well for you,” I remind myself.
I could probably end the girlfriend and live, though…
The door is yanked open once more, and I turn to climb out, but gasp when Enzo’s handsome face is right there, half his body leaning in the vehicle, arms locked against the hood.
“About one thing anyway,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s continuing his statement as if he’d just spoken.
I’m not wrong…about one thing anyway.
“They won’t believe you’re my fiancée when you wear no ring.”
“Well then, I guess I'm just the girl you brought along for—”
I cut off abruptly when he pulls a small black box from his jacket pocket. He holds it up and I look from it to him.
“Close your eyes,” he orders, but there’s no real malice or mocking in his tone.
I continue to stare, a strange nervousness stirring in my stomach.
This is crazy, even if maybe it shouldn’t be. This man is the man I asked to marry me and technically, he did. He is my husband on paper. I’ve seen said paper myself, read the legal document several times now, but again, that’s a piece of paper.
This is the weight of a ring, a game tag that marks me as his for all the other hunters to see.
Why is that so terrifying?
I asked for this. I was excited to have a man like him to call mine. Marriage of convenience or not, I went after and got the man I wanted, so what sense does it make that fear roots me in place now?
Because you let go of the idea of him altogether, too afraid he’d pick your sister over you when your father offered him the trade.
My lips press together firmly. He probably would have taken Rocklin in exchange if Bastian wasn’t in the picture.
“Boston.”
I blink, refocusing on Enzo. He raises a brow expectantly, so I close my eyes, breath lodging in my throat when he takes my hand with his. A moment later, the chill of the band runs up my finger, sending a second down my spine. My fingers flex, my muscles bunching.
Lips meet my ear and I clench my eyes tighter.
“Remember, Little Bride.” His words are a rough rasp. “This is real. No one is to question us, do you understand?”
I swallow, a hoarse “Yes” pushing past my lips.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, burning my cheek with the heat of his lips when he slides them along my skin with his retreat.
Slowly, my eyes open, locking on to his. He holds a hand out, and I lift my left one, placing it in his.
His gaze holds mine as if waiting for something, but after a moment, a hint of frustration crosses his face and he moves back, helping me from the vehicle.
I break our stare first, my attention lasered on the front of the private restaurant, counting steps in my head to have something to focus on. It works fine until we step inside the cocktail room, and Enzo removes my light overcoat, passing it to the gentleman who appears.
I push a foot ahead, but Enzo needs no effort to keep up, his form looming inches behind me every step of the way. I step up to the bar, curling my fingers around the thick golden trim.
This being an establishment that didn’t so much as ask for our names as we walked in yet greeted Enzo with a bow of respect tells me my age is a non-issue. This place is without a doubt owned and operated by someone from the underground, likely ran as a cover for something else, so when the woman behind the counter offers a smile, I order a shot of Macallan 1824.
She lifts two glasses, pouring and passing them over.