Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
He’s always had security on the outside of his house; on the inside I get to wreak unchecked havoc. I wait until the security guard takes his cigarette break, and then I sneak in through the side garden, which is a minor blind spot. When I reach the door leading to the garden’s courtyard, I quickly pick the locks and sneak into the only room that doesn’t seem to be lit up.
“So that’s how…” I freeze at the voice and am caught red-handed by the light switch flicking on. Eli is leaning against the door frame. “I told you to use the front door.”
“I don’t give a shit what you told me,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
He stands there, tilting his head and staring down at me through his eyelashes. I should just kill the motherfucker right now and be done with it, but how the fuck will I get my guns then? It would be satisfying, though.
“If you kill me now, you won’t ever get your guns back.”
My jaw falls open. How did he know that’s what I was thinking? He pushes off the doorframe. “It’s written all over your face, Kitten. You might be good with a gun, but subtlety is not your forte.” He turns his back to me. “Come, let’s eat. I made us dinner.”
I scoff, grumbling under my breath, “Come, let’s eat in my evil lair.”
He turns, appearing offended. “What is it with everyone mimicking me lately? I don’t even sound like that.”
I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Have you heard your own voice? You’re kind of fucking annoying.”
He turns again, trying his best to hide the smile. “Someone is sensitive about their guns being taken.”
My fingers curl into my palms until his previous words finally hit me. “Wait? You cook?”
“I do. Now, fucking move,” he grumbles and reaches for my hand. I pull away from him. This motherfucker might have me here willingly, but that doesn’t mean he has permission to touch me. Especially when I’m fucking furious.
Remind me why I haven’t killed this motherfucker yet.
Oh, that’s right, because my client still wants him alive.
That makes this asshole one lucky bastard.
It’s the fragrant aroma that hits me first as we enter the kitchen, and I try not to show my surprise. Is this guy just good at fucking everything?
“Sit,” he instructs, without so much as looking in my direction. I bite my tongue to keep from grumbling under my breath again.
I take a seat at the island, sweeping my gaze around the grand kitchen. I hadn’t made it this far the last time I broke in. I’d only crept up to his bedroom. I hate the fact his home is beautiful. But it also feels empty. Probably because of the soulless asshole who owns it.
I wonder if my guns are hidden here somewhere.
I twist and look over my shoulder, trying to peer out the doorway that seems to lead into a dining space.
“Your guns aren’t here if that’s what you’re looking for,” he states casually as he plates up what looks to be chicken smothered in a cream sauce and vegetables on the side. Well, don’t we have a fucking Michelin chef in here.
“You get that out of a box?” I snidely remark.
“In my family and heritage, you say thank you when someone serves you food.”
“In my upbringing, you don’t steal,” I snap back.
He pauses mid-scoop with one eyebrow raised, that scar splitting through it. It’s disgustingly beautiful to see this deadly god of a man do something so fucking mundane while still well-dressed and perfectly put together.
“You stole my watches first.”
I go to speak but immediately close my mouth.
Fuck.
He has a point.
I have to look away when his arrogant smirk kicks up again.
Fucking asshole.
“If you want your watches back so badly, I’ll even spit polish them before I return them. Just give me my guns back,” I say, getting irritated. One of them was my father’s. I should kill him now, fuck the contract. Those guns are my life, and nothing can replace them.
“You seem to really care about your weapons. Let me guess… a gift from your father?” The aroma of the food wafts under my nose, and I have to give credit when it’s due; it smells fucking amazing, which only pisses me off more. He called me over for what? Fucking dinner? At my silence, he seems proud of himself. “Okay, so I did hit home. Maybe they were your father’s.”
“I hate you,” I mumble. The corner of his mouth tilts up at that as he carries the plates toward the dining room, where a pre-lit candle stands in the center of the table.
Vomit.
When I make no move to join him, his voice carries between the rooms. “Jewel, you’ll only make this harder on yourself.”
I hop off the stool, knowing he’s right. He has to have a reason for me being here; it can’t be to just wine and dine me. The room is just as beautiful as the rest of the mansion I’ve seen so far and just as soulless. Or maybe that’s because of the monster standing at the head of the table, pulling out the chair beside his and waiting for me. Between the two dishes is a bottle of white wine, and he pours us each a glass.