Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
The doors sweep open, and I march in, only to stop short. The lobby is cavernous. The architects sacrificed at least five floors of space to this commanding space. It’s empty, silent as a cathedral. A little creepy, seeing as every other building is filled with people rushing to make their morning meetings, but a good sign if I don’t want to wait in a coffee-shop line.
The clip-clop of my high heels echoes for miles. The coffee shop is in its own little cube in the corner and just my luck–it’s dead. Not a single customer. The barista looks startled to see me.
“Hey.” I give him my brightest smile and toss my hair back from my eyes. “I need a bunch of coffees to go.”
I pull up my phone to get to Indira’s list, but there's no reception. “Sorry, my email isn’t loading. Just a moment.” I check the internet connection and mutter a prayer that it will cooperate.
The door behind me opens, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. Another customer is here, and I’m holding things up. “I’ll just step outside real quick.”
The barista’s eyes widen, but I catch the warning too late. I turn and slam into a tall man in a dark suit. He must have been right at my back, about to walk into me. I wobble on my heels, and he grabs me, his strong grip biting into my forearms.
Blackthroat’s drycleaned suit flaps between us and falls to the floor.
He’s as big as Brick Blackthroat but doesn't have the same delicious outdoorsy scent. Not that I've noticed Blackthroat’s scent.
“I'm so sorry–”
“Watch it.” The deep voice grates my ears. My head snaps up. I’m about to tell him off for breathing down my neck like a creepy stalker when I meet the coldest pair of blue eyes I've ever seen. Twin pits of ice blue, freezing me in my place. A strange silver shimmer flashes over them, and my stomach lurches.
The barista rushes out from behind the counter. “Mr. Adalwulf, I'm so sorry–” He’s choking out an apology like it was his fault.
The man holding me glances at the barista, and the babbling apologies cease.
Mr. Adalwulf.
Oh, crap.
I knew from my research that Adalwulf Associates had a building on the same block as Moon Co., but I hadn’t realized it was this one. I was just thinking about coffee.
I should have paid more attention.
I straighten, on high alert. This could be a cousin, or a distant relation, but my instincts scream that this is the one and only Aiden Adalwulf. From my research, I know he’s younger than Brick, and he looks it–other than the frigid cold in his eyes. His face is magazine-model beautiful but frozen, as if carved from granite. The lack of lines around his eyes or throat makes him look like he’s never laughed or smiled in his life. A living, breathing, handsome shell of a man, totally dead inside. My insides roil.
He looks down at the suit, no doubt registering the stapled receipt bearing Blackthroat’s name. When he looks back up, there’s a touch of surprise–mixed with annoyance or anger? I can't get an exact read. Like Brick, he has waves of power rolling off him. I want to duck my head and slink away.
“Who are you?” he demands.
“Mr. Adalwulf?” I try to tug away, and his thumbs dig into the flesh below my elbows, making my arms throb. Then he seems to remember himself and releases me.
I offer him my hand, more to put something between us than out of any desire to shake. “Madi Evans.”
His gaze flickers down to my hand and away. He got close enough for me to crash into him, but I guess he’s too busy and important to properly greet me.
There are four big guys behind him, with identical suits and stone-faced expressions. They all look like they would slit my throat if Adalwulf gave the word. Probably bodyguards. One of them peels off and fetches a single cup from the barista.
This has to be Aiden. His father Odin doesn't come out in public much anymore. Rumor has it, he’s ill.
There’s nothing in my notes about Aiden being hella awkward, but billionaires are allowed to be rude. Their status creates a force field that softens their less-than-pretty personality traits. Aubrey has a working theory that all billionaires are sociopaths. If she ever wanted to write a research paper, Aiden Adalwulf could be her star subject.
“You don’t belong here.” He’s still looking down at me, and the thousand-yard stare scrambles my wires. It’s like looking down the sight of a rifle. No one breathes a word when he raises a big hand and captures a wayward strand of my hair between a thumb and forefinger. He brushes my cheek when he does it, and I stiffen. Every cell in my body screams for me to get away from him. He leans down like a Victorian gentleman bending over a woman’s hand. Is he…sniffing me?