Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Tomorrow, Anya, you owe me. I’ll pick you up at three.”
I don’t turn back to look at him, because I know if I do, I’ll walk straight back up those stairs and into his arms.
Not because I want a hug or a kiss, I tell myself. Because I want to fuck him.
And that’s becoming a dangerous sentiment in itself.
“I’m busy tomorrow,” I shout back.
“I’m picking you up,” he shouts down the stairs.
“Don’t pick me up before five. I have plans!” I yell before I slam the door behind me.
My heart pounds as I walk out, shivering cold and still wet. I send Vance a text and start walking down the driveway, never looking back.
What the fuck am I doing here?
Have I lost my fucking mind?
CHAPTER 22
Anya
“You seem quiet today, miss,” Clay says as he looks through the rearview mirror at me.
“Everything’s fine, Clay,” I say dismissively as I clutch the black briefcase in my lap.
Everything is not fine. Last night, I didn’t even recognize myself. I’d slipped up.
River is the enemy. He’s sexy as all fuck, but he has no place in my world. Yet I naturally gravitate toward him, fooling myself that it’s just for sex.
No, I can get sex anywhere I want.
So why did I go to him?
I push the mounting thoughts down. I don’t need the complication of thoughts or feelings. I don’t do feelings, and I don’t chase men.
It’s a debt to be paid. Once it’s done, River will be out of my life forever. Though, I’m not so sure of that now that he’s bought the house beside mine. But I’m sure I can become the neighbor from hell.
And even after all the mental fuckery, I still didn’t get laid.
“Clay, stay by the car. You scare the kids,” I say as I step out of the back seat.
“Yes, miss,” he agrees. “I’ll be watching from here,” he adds as he steps out of the car and stands beside the driver’s door.
I look up at the worn-down building with bold letters that say “Orphanage.” I’ve always hated this place. It reminds me of a prison, and in many ways, it was for my brother and me. We were handed through two foster families before the old bitch found us. Each one of them said we were too much to handle. Granted, Alek got violent at the last foster home we were in, but that place was beyond full of children. That man deserved every moment of the beating Alek gave him. When I was a teenager, I returned to his home, and he was the first man I’d taken satisfaction in killing for what he had done to me.
I would never fall victim to a man again.
My grip tightens on the briefcase as I cross the road. Same time, same day every month, I come here.
I’m not a good person, but there’s a small relief inside me knowing that all this money I’ve amassed might help a child in the same circumstances as my brother and I once were.
“Anya,” Mikaela says expectantly. She’s second in charge to Lucy, the woman who has run the orphanage for the last thirty years. “Punctual as always.” She opens the door, and I cringe at the thought of stepping into a hall full of children.
“No, thank you. I’ll just drop the money off here,” I say as I hold out the briefcase to her, but she takes a step farther into the hallway.
“Lucy would like to see you briefly, if you have a moment,” she says. I sigh and take my designer sunglasses off and prop them on my head. I handle men like they’re a sport. Surely, I can handle the uncomfortable presence of children.
I slip through the door and follow her down the hall. It’s quiet, and my heels click against the wooden floors. It feels colder in here than outside. So many things haven’t changed here over the years, yet every time I enter, I can see the subtle updates made to the estate. No doubt from my “anonymous” contributions.
As I walk down the hall, I notice a pair of beady eyes peering at me through a door that’s ajar. A young girl watches me. Because that’s not creepy in the slightest.
I’m escorted through to the main reception area and on to Lucy’s office.
I cringe at the sound of a child crying when I step inside. I all but fold into myself as Lucy rocks a baby back and forth. The sixty-year-old woman looks like she hasn’t changed a bit. That doe-eyed affection fills her gaze as she bounces the infant around.
She looks up with a smile. “Anya. It’s been a while since you’ve shown your face. It’s good to see you.”
“Pleasure,” I reply dryly.
She lets out a little laugh, always having found amusement in my dry tone. Yet in some ways, it’s oddly comforting. Despite my spoiled ways as a child, she had always taken time for me and my brother after our parents abandoned us.