Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 79749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
After finding nothing of importance to me in the second drawer, I attempt to open the third and find that it's locked.
"Want the key?"
I snap my eyes up to the doorway, feeling my skin grow cold, my legs threatening to buckle at the sight of Damien standing in the doorway with a key dangling from the tip of one finger. I know better than to mistake the bored look on his face for anything other than rage. It doesn't matter that he looks relaxed as he leans against the doorway. The man is livid, and all of that ire and rage is focused on me and what I've been caught doing.
I knew it was a risk to come in here before I was alerted that he passed through the front gate of the property.
I stand to my full height which is still a handful of inches shorter than him, despite feeling like a slight breeze has the potential to knock me to the ground.
I don't make excuses or lie because I know from experience that doing so would only make things worse than they are.
He seems proud that I don't open my mouth to come up with some excuse for being in here. Only house staff have a key, and they would never go snooping through his drawers. It seems I'm the only one dumb enough to do it.
"You have new carpet," I say stupidly.
"Do you like it?" he asks as he shifts away from the doorframe and steps further into the room.
"I think the dark red will hide more stains."
He looks down at the plush carpet under his feet, a small, sinister smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.
"I didn't want to have to replace it every time I had to teach someone a lesson," he says as he lifts his eyes back to mine. "Come here."
I move because he commands it, my body knowing that any objection would only anger him further.
He's so different from the young man who came to work for my father two decades ago. He’s had a better handle on his rage in recent years. It has made him meaner somehow—less volatile on the outside but even more violent once he's pushed over the edge.
"Look there," he says, pointing to the corner.
I follow the tip of his finger to the blatantly obvious camera attached to the ceiling in the corner of the room.
"Did you really think I didn't know you've been coming in here for years and snooping through your father's things?"
I swallow but don't answer. He isn't looking for a response.
"I didn't think you were stupid enough to do it once I moved in here, but I guess I should stop giving you any sort of credit."
"Where's Eli?" I ask, refusing to stay silent any longer.
"He's safe," he answers, not giving me any information. "More than I can say about you."
I wouldn't say the hit comes from nowhere. It isn't the first time Damien has struck me. There were times when my father was alive that Damien left the evidence of his anger on my face. My dad would simply look at me and shake his head as if he was disappointed that I'd do anything to upset my husband.
Pain radiates from my cheek, spreading to my jaw and eye socket, but before I can lift my hand to cover the wound, he strikes me again, this time splitting my lip and making me cry out in pain. I drop to my knees, my head focusing for some reason on the drips of blood hitting his new carpet and disappearing as if it never happened.
I feel the warmth of his breath on the side of my face as he crouches beside me. I whimper again when he clasps my chin, his thumb digging into the wound on my mouth before he speaks.
"You have no business in this room. You have no business asking me questions about Eli. If you so much as look like you're questioning the choices I make, I'll fucking kill you both. Do you understand me?"
I dip my head in agreement, doing my best to keep silent when he uses the pressure he has on my face to push me backward until I'm sprawled out on the floor. I wince in pain, pulling my arm to my chest after it smacks the floor. I know not to get up. He very well may not be done hurting me. The one time I tried to scramble away from him, he kicked the shit out of me. Phantom pain spears me in the side from the broken ribs I earned that day.
"No more questions," I gasp. "No more snooping. I'm sorry."
"I'll be home late," he says before taking a step back.
I watch as he drops the key to the locked drawer on the top of his desk before walking out.