Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“It’s really good,” he says brightly. “Spent half the night finding a solid roaster that does half-caff. You’re gonna love it.”
“I better.” I storm to the kitchen, already thinking about escape.
Chapter 23
Alisa
I have no choice but to pound the treadmill for an hour.
Escape isn’t a real option. I might be able to send Orin out on some wild-goose chase errand to keep him busy, but the moment I step out of the house, I’ll be swarmed by one of the dozen men Liam has guarding the place.
I can see his goons lingering on the sidewalk outside.
People give our house a wide berth.
They’re even in the back yard, keeping an eye on the garden.
If I slip out a window, or sneak through a door, those goons will drag me back inside before I can get more than a few feet.
Although I can make a lot of noise. We’re in a popular, crowded city area, which means a screaming girl’s going to draw a ton of attention.
Liam definitely doesn’t want that.
But it’s not like I know where Liam’s at. I could call him, but that’s not enough. I could ask Orin, but I’m kind of sick of Orin right now, and anyway, I’m not sure he’d tell me. Liam’s mysterious office is somewhere in downtown Portland, but beyond that, I’ve got no clue.
Which means I’m forced to wait.
Patience is not one of my virtues. Actually, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure I have any virtues. But hey, I’ve got a ton of stubbornness, which is just as good.
I run, and I plan, and I think about all the ways I can get out of this terrible situation without ending up dead.
Liam shows up around ten at night, right around when I’m ready to give up and go to sleep.
I hear the front door close. Muffled voices drift up the stairs. I wait for him in our former bedroom, my legs crossed. Seething with rage, but keeping it contained. Losing my temper won’t do any good.
He appears in the doorway and looks surprised to see me. “Did you decide to come back to bed?” he asks. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t stay away for long.”
I stand, crossing my arms. He’s in slacks and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, while I’m in sweats. I figure the baggy outfit is like armor against his stupid piercing sexiness.
“I want my freedom back,” I say, which is like an ant asking a mountain to move, but it’s a good start.
“Ah, we’re having this conversation.” He tosses his jacket onto the chair in the corner. “Can we wait until after I’ve showered?”
“No, we can’t, and don’t dismiss how I’m feeling like I’m some sort of annoying, unruly child.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t do that. But I’m going to anyway.” He heads for the bathroom.
Yep, there’s the good old anger again. I leap in front of him, holding out my hands. He stops just before my fingertips jab into his chest. “If you go into that bathroom, I swear I’ll run all the hot water in this place and smoke you out of there.”
His eyebrows raise. “That’s diabolical. But why not just dump ice water over the glass?”
“Great suggestion. I’ll do that instead.”
“Be reasonable, Alisa.”
“I could say the same thing to you! Actually, that’s exactly what I’m doing. You be reasonable. You can’t seriously expect me to stay hidden all day.”
He cocks his head. “You’re my pregnant wife and I’m in the middle of a war. You think I’m going to let you go anywhere near danger?”
“You seemed fine with it before.”
“You weren’t pregnant before.”
“Actually, I was. We just didn’t know about it until now.”
“And now that I know, I can’t act as if I don’t. You are precious to me. You and that baby—”
“No,” I say, shaking my head rapidly. “No, no, no, don’t do that. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Hear what?” he asks, his calm exterior cracking slightly. Exasperation shows through.
“This whole precious crap. I am not precious to you. We barely know each other! We’re supposed to be working as a team to hurt Rustik and that’s it, end of relationship. You can’t spring this whole precious thing on me out of nowhere. It’s absurd.”
“You think I don’t know you?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Where did I go to high school?”
“Carl Sandberg.”
I frown slightly. “Okay, that’s correct. Lucky guess. Where did I go to college?”
“The University of Portland where you earned a degree in Business Economics and went on to achieve an MBA.”
“Fine, that’s right, but—”
“Go ahead, ask me anything you want. Your favorite color is green. You loathe purple which is why you draped it all over our room. You’re loving and gentle, but you have an angry streak wider than the Amazon river. You like The Beatles, think the Rolling Stones would be better without Mick Jagger, and you’re a Swiftie but also hate the term Swiftie. You like that god-awful show Supernatural because you think that Jensen actor has beautiful eyelashes. You kept a LiveJournal for years longer than it was cool. Now you update your Tumblr almost every day. You’re obsessed with dark academia. You like crystals, but not in a witchy, new age sort of way, you just think they’re pretty. How am I doing so far?”