Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
So peaceful.
Even the prick of the needle in her ass does nothing but make her stir, mumbling in her sleep. “Everything’s fine,” I whisper as I push down on the plunger. “You have nothing to worry about, little bird. Because you’re mine.”
And nobody gets in the way of me taking what’s mine.
Not Amanda, who wants what she didn’t have to lift a finger to help build.
Not Lucas, who only thinks he can get back what he so stupidly tossed aside.
“I’m going to make everything perfect for us,” I murmur as I stand by the side of the bed. “For us and our baby.”
BIANCA
Of all things, why would I dream about getting stung by a bee?
That’s the first thing that comes to mind when I wake up. My ass is sore all over, but there’s a different sort of stinging, too. I must be imagining it.
I don’t know where I am right away, and I’m afraid to open my eyes. Why am I afraid? There’s dread weighing on me, tapping the back of my mind when I’m still half asleep.
Warning me.
It doesn’t take long to figure out why once it all comes back. I don’t even remember falling asleep. Somehow, I did, and now here I am. Naked and in bed, but not the one in Tatum’s room. This room has a masculine smell to it, and I recognize it right away.
He brought me to his room. And he’s next to me. I hear him typing away on his laptop. His spicy, masculine scent fills the air.
Right away, my heart flips, and I feel all hot and clammy. I don’t have any reason to, really—he’s working quietly, not bothering me. I’m sure he thinks I’m still asleep. And although he undressed me while I was out of it, I’m safe and comfortable. He hasn’t hurt me.
At least, not any more than he already did.
My body flushes with shame when I remember how easy I made it for him to make me say what he wanted to hear. That I want him to humiliate me. That I belong to him. No wonder my ass hurts.
And what was worse, so much worse that it makes me feel sick, is how natural it felt. How much I wanted to give in. I don’t know what it is about him or what he does to me, but at that moment, I would have said anything. I was completely under his control, no matter how much I didn’t want to be.
In the moment, I wanted it very much. I wanted it to be true.
I can’t keep living like this. It’s sick and twisted and wrong. I shouldn’t have let this go on as long as I have. He thinks I’m going to stay here with him forever, and that was never the plan.
Now that I’m thinking clearly—because he’s not touching me, teasing me, torturing me—I can’t remember why I ever gave in.
I only know for sure he’ll hold me to my promise.
There’s got to be a way out of this mess, no matter how warm and comfortable I feel right now. Even the sound of his fingers hitting the keys is soothing. I could easily fall asleep again.
But I won’t do that because I have too much to figure out. I can’t give up on myself, which is exactly what I’d be doing if I let myself fall asleep in these luscious satin sheets and act like there was anything right about what happened.
It’s always going to be this way. I can’t live like this. Who could? I never know what he’s going to say or do. The mood he’ll be in. What stupid little thing I’ll do that will set him off. This is wrong, and I don’t want it.
But I can’t lie to myself. I still want him. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t pretend otherwise. My whole life could depend on whether I’m honest with myself now. I owe it to myself, to be honest.
“I know you’re awake.”
Damn it. At the sound of his voice, I tense all over, which I’m sure only proves what he just said. I yawn loudly, like I just came to, before opening my eyes and rolling over to face him. The room is pitch black except for the glow from the laptop that lets me see him sitting with his back to the headboard, bare-chested and maybe naked under the blanket pulled up to his waist.
And here I am, staring at his body and the tattoos on his biceps and chest. He’s a work of art—a twisted, unpredictable, violent work of art.
“What time is it?” I whisper. My voice is hoarse, and right away, I remember screaming like a banshee earlier. I’m so ashamed of myself for acting the way I did.
“One o’clock.” I was out for hours. No wonder my stomach’s growling.