Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“It’s not green. It’s just…a very dark shade of brown.”
“It’s green.”
“It’s-”
“Those lines? Tribal markings.”
“Tribal…tattoos.”
Which I honestly don’t recall her having when I was kid.
Come to think about it.
I remember very few things about her.
Her love of woodcutting, which is why Dad and I still attend lumberjack festivals.
Her long hair that she let me braid with ribbons while watching X-Men: The Animated Series as a family.
And how she vanished without a fucking trace.
It was like one day I had a mom and the next, she was just a vague memory that my father attached to his reasonings for shit like me never being allowed to go to slumber parties or birthday parties or any parties.
He always feared I would walk out the door to not walk back through it.
It only got worse when I went to college.
The idea that maybe she just walked out on her family without a second thought, which is something I had to explain to my father for years that I would never do, seemed to be implausible for him to even consider.
He just knew something had happened to her.
Ugh.
Speaking of my father, how the hell am I supposed to make that phone call at lunch?!
“Yeah, Dad, the love of your life you never got over because you assumed she was dead and you weren’t allowed to bury her was at work today giving my super-hot boss an over the pants handy” is not a conversation I really wanna have.
Ever.
The well-dressed man’s gray almost platinum colored gaze grows amusement in it. “Alright, Miss Pennington—the woman who seems to have a counter explanation for everything—let’s momentarily accept your previously presented arguments.” The expression deepens. “How do you justify the bottom teeth permanently poking out past her lip?”
“She clearly just needs some dental assistance.”
The eyeroll I’m given has my fingers gripping my hips tighter to prevent from forming a fist.
A fist I would love to jam right into his balls before I kiss them better.
Wait.
No.
Not that last part.
Lria.
“That creature is an orc-”
“Still not real, Mr. Draak.”
“And if she were actually your mother—which just to be transparent as fuck I do not believe she is—you would be at least a half-orc. Your skin would be green like hers. You’d have at least one orc like feature—for example pointed ears or pointed teeth or smell like a campfire. And above all else you wouldn’t be so…,” his voice softens as his eyes slowly sweep my shapely figure in an intimate fashion, “pint-size.”
“Excuse you! Do not comment on my appearance!”
And not just because I’m being a little sensitive regarding the fact that I’m only five-foot-four.
“That is highly unprofessional and inappropriate!”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” he states, stare lifting back to mine. “I was simply making an observation, Pint-Size.”
“It’s Cami!”
An irresistible smirk sparks itself in his expression. “Cami?”
“Cameron!”
For some reason the grin grows even wider.
“Miss. Fucking. Pennington.”
“Now, I know that is not HR approved language, Pint-Size,” Mr. Draak cheekily states, beam so blindingly bright it would probably burn my sun-sensitive best friend.
“Call me pint-size one more time, Mr. Draak, and see if I don’t take off these earrings and this badge and handle things in this situation a lot less diplomatically.”
“Ptur.”
“What?!”
“Ptur is my first name,” he warmly announces, effortlessly smothering out the building indignation. “However, my family and friends-”
“Oh, you have those?”
The light chortle he expels has me forcing myself to swallow my own. “They call me P.”
“I like Ptur,” I mindlessly inform.
My declaration is met by another sweet smirk. “I like Cami.”
In spite of how easy it would be to continue what is a very, very inappropriate conversation akin to flirting, I forcefully change gears. “And I would like to know why this woman—who is my mother regardless of your rude remarks—is unconscious, has been poisoned, and happens to be in your office—supposedly not engaged in sexual conduct—after disappearing off the face of the planet over twenty years ago.”
Ptur’s mouth flinches as though preparing one answer yet abruptly stops to present another. “I needed to get her bound.”
Bemusement bitch slaps me in the face for the hundredth time. “What?!”
“Her limbs,” he states prior to ransacking his desk drawers for something. “She needs to be tied up and transported for interrogating.”
“First of all, Mr. Draak, it is against company policy to tie up employees-”
“She’s not an employee.” His proclamation is given at the same time a hunk of rope is plopped on top of his disarrayed desk. “She’s an enforcer.”
“Second of all—sidestepping the obvious question of why you have rope tucked away like its scotch tape—tying someone up is not part of the procedure for handling an intruder.”
“Enforcer.” Another set of rope is stacked on top of the first. “And the reason I have rope is because it’s one of the items in my emergency kit.”
“What kind of emergency kit has rope in it?! Who do you think you are? Indiana Jones?!”