Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
But if he complains again I'm walking out and making him pack his own shit.
Well, I'll seriously think about walking out and making him pack himself.
Once everything is organized, I stare at the bathroom door, which is shut mostly, minus a sliver of light cast across the floor. Does he want me to pack his toiletries too? I mean...how should I know which of his overpriced colognes or body soaps he wants packed?
No. Better to let him do that himself. It’s one less thing I can make a mistake on. Instead, I stare down at the suitcase and its contents. It looks good, great even, but I can hear his voice in my head, and I’d much rather be ignored by him than berated. With my anxiety heightened and the fear of making a mistake rattling in my ear, I drop to the floor and sit cross-legged in front of the suitcase.
Then I straighten the already straight lines of clothing, again and again. I become immersed in making sure everything is perfect, so much so that by the time I snap out of it I find myself wondering when he’s going to return, like his approval is life itself. The reality of that thought breaks me, and I remember how bitter and cruel he is.
Heat climbs up my neck, until my ears are burning and my nails cut into the palms of my hand as I clench them. Why am I sitting here, like a dutiful wife doing as she’s told?
I'm tempted to tip the case over and tell him to fuck himself. I'd regret it instantly; I know it, but this fucking dick thinks he can order me around like a dog, then bully me into doing what he wants. And stupidly, I do it. Yes, he's my employer, technically, but damn him, he orders me around like I'm more of a pet than a paid worker.
I shove off the floor and re-enter the closet, staring at the long row of his perfectly pressed clothes, some still wrapped in their dry cleaning bags. Under the hanging suits and slacks, low shelves are lined with shiny leather shoes, athletic clothing, and other accessories.
It's all perfectly organized, thanks to me. Not that it wasn't before I started working here and doing most of the laundry—it’s just that no one else ever touches his things. According to the kitchen staff, I’m one of the few workers who gets to enter his room and closet.
I skim my fingers across the fabrics, watching the sheen of the overhead recessed lighting reflect off their surfaces. A box on the far side of the closet holds a line of watches, cuff links, and perfectly wound belts.
My gaze catches on something shiny next to the box. I shouldn’t…but I do—what’s that saying, curiosity killed the cat?
Consider me dead.
I move closer as if I’m tethered to the object, and the glint of a knife edge gleams back at me. I nearly gasp as I take in the sight of it. It’s eight inches long, has a black handle, and a long, shiny, silver point. I’ve never seen a knife like this before; then again, who the hell needs a knife like that?
Don’t do it. Do not touch it.
Against my better judgment, my hand moves on its own, and I gently pick up the knife. Grasping the handle tightly, I lift it toward my face to get a better look at it. The blade is shiny, without a speck of dirt, blood, or any imperfection.
What does Sebastian use a knife like this for?
I think back to some of the rumors I've heard about him from those who attend Oakmount, and even some of the staff. It’s been said that he has a thing for blood and pain in the bedroom, among other darker things I refuse to think about. A shiver ripples down my spine at the thought. Okay, I need to stop thinking about this. Even as the memory of scrubbing blood out of Egyptian cotton rises up.
I swallow thickly, my attention gravitating back to the shimmering blade. They’re just rumors, Elyse. That’s what I tell myself, even if I know better.
What if it were me he was using this knife on? No, that’s a foolish thought. He might look at me with heat flickering in his eyes every now and then, but that means nothing, not when he’s almost always cursing my name or shoving me around to do his bidding.
I'd rather climb in bed with a panther than sleep with him. Hell, I’d probably climb out with fewer injuries.
I tighten my grip on the handle and stare over the edge of the blade, my gaze darting to the fancy line of clothes hanging just inches away. I don’t know a damn thing about this knife, but I know the blade will cut through wool and cotton like butter. I can feel it. Sense it.