Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Being a Vor means never showing weakness, and I’m not of the mindset to start now. Despite my confliction, my course does not deviate as I move toward her bedroom. When I open the door, she startles, just as Nonna predicted, shooting up in bed and clinging to the sheet. A sliver of moonlight falls from the curtain, bathing her in soft light, and it gives me pause. She is too beautiful to wreck herself this way, and I have the sudden urge to question the authenticity of Nonna’s words. But regardless of my uncertainties, the signs can’t be ignored. She is weak and too thin. Something I credited to her endless routines was a misconception on my part.
“Hello?” Her voice is timid and frail as she attempts to make out the shadow in her doorway. This little mafia princess is always expecting wolves at her door, and it leaves me to wonder how often she has encountered men like me before. When I flip the light switch, her sleepy eyes adjust in phases, relaxing as they move over my features.
Irritatingly enough, her sudden comfort in my presence causes my dick to stir to life. She should not be relieved when she sees me. But what’s worse is that the warmth of her feminine scent eases me too. I could think of nothing more relaxing than bathing in her scent right now. I would like to bury myself in it, fuck it, and douse my body with the fire of her skin to carry with me always.
These thoughts are dismissed the moment I realize the absurdity of them.
“Until you can show some respect for my hospitality, you are to remain in this room.”
Her brows draw together, and she pulls the sheet tight around her, obscuring her hardened nipples and white camisole from my view. “What did I do to disrespect you?”
“It’s your body you are disrespecting.” I gesture to her willowy form beneath the blankets. “I have provided you with three nourishing meals a day, and you choose to waste them or deposit the contents in the toilet?”
Her eyes widen, and her hair falls loosely around her face when she shakes her head. She is embarrassed, and she is a liar.
“I forbid you to use the gym until you can show me that you have learned to eat properly.”
“You can’t do that,” she cries out. “I’m still rehabilitating.”
Desperation claws at her features, transforming her from a sleeping beauty to a simpering child. Whatever relief existed before has now morphed into hatred. It’s better this way. She should hate me, and she should know better than to defy me.
“The doctor will come to your room to continue physical therapy, but you can forget dancing until you are healed.”
Her lip quivers, and for the first time, I think I might see real tears from her. This girl
is skilled at hiding her true emotions, but this seems to be the thing that will break her. How she can cling to something so violently troubles me deeply. It isn’t normal behavior. Certainly not for someone who was aware that she would be forced to give it up once she married. Her reaction only fills my head with more questions and doubts, but I can’t give voice to them.
I’ve established the boundaries, and I’m prepared to leave her to her sorrow, but she is not willing to let it go so easily.
“It was you,” she sneers. “Wasn’t it?”
I arch an eyebrow at her, waiting patiently to hear the crime I am accused of.
“I have gone over it so many times,” she says. “The events of that night. It’s no coincidence that you showed up to take me away the same day someone sabotaged my shoes.”
I smile at her naïvety. “That would be the easiest thing to believe, I suppose. Wouldn’t it?”
“It’s the truth,” she insists.
“Ahhh but, Nakya, the truth is I think you know who sabotaged your shoes. I had nothing to gain by doing so, and I would have taken you regardless. But I was not the one who wanted you to give up nonsensical dreams, so you could marry in the traditional way.”
Her lips slam shut, and she doesn’t say another word on the subject. But it’s just as well.
I’ve made my point.
With the light of morning comes a renewed sense of hope. When I slip from my bed, the house is quiet, and my breakfast is waiting on the dressing table. Everything is as it should be. I’m confident that when I walk to the door and turn the knob, I will laugh at the absurdity of my dreams last night.
But the knob doesn’t move regardless of how I turn it because it wasn’t a dream and he’s locked me in here. My palms lock into fists at my sides, and I resist the urge to slam them against the door.