Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 54283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
I clutch my books to my chest like a shield and turn away. His deep chuckle follows me, setting tiny fires in my veins.
Halfway to the counter, his voice halts me. "Hey, Irish."
I glance over my shoulder to find him staring at me, his gaze smoldering.
"You're more suited to peace," he murmurs.
"What?"
"War and Peace." He nods at the stack of books in my hands. "Choose peace. It suits you better."
I blink wide eyes at him. "Have you ever thought about taking your own advice, Nazario?"
"Only every fucking day." He smirks at me, those amber eyes still locked on my face. "See you around, Irish."
I practically stumble over my own two feet as I make my way to the counter to check out, his gaze on me the entire time. I don't hear a word the cashier says to me as she bags up my books and then swipes my card before handing everything back to me. But I still feel the imprint of Nazario's scorching gaze between my shoulder blades as I hurry out of the store, my heart racing.
The man is a monster. My father would lose his mind if he knew that he'd been here.
And yet, when I glance back before stepping out onto the street and see him still standing there, watching me, the shiver that rips through me isn't entirely unpleasant. In fact, I like the way it feels almost as much as I like the savage hunger in his eyes. And I know I won't say a word.
Shit.
Chapter Three
Naz
"Príncipe, wait."
I glance over my shoulder at Nicolas, one brow arched as impatience courses through me. "What is it?"
"Your ticket." He pulls it from his breast pocket with a grin, holding it out to me. "You'll need this if you plan to get into the gala."
I pause halfway out of the limo, muttering a soft curse. I didn't consider that I might need a ticket for this thing. Unlike Sullivan, I don't try to hide who I am by showing up for bullshit like this or throwing money at whatever cause is in at the moment. It's a ridiculous fucking thing to do, all things considered.
I'm a goddamn criminal. Why pretend to be anything other than who and what I am when everyone knows the truth? They knew about my family long before I was even old enough to comprehend that there are two different kinds of royalty in this world—and I'm not the right kind. And they feared me long before I understood there was anything to fear.
It's ironic, really. They'll take my money so long as I'm willing to hand it over. And they'll look the other way and pretend it isn't sprinkled with cocaine and dripping in blood while they line their pockets.
But as soon as I step inside that ballroom, the whispers will start. They don't want me here any more than I want to be here. My money is good enough for them. I'll never be accepted.
Too bad for them. Brynna Sullivan is inside. So tonight, they'll endure my company, regardless of how intolerable they find it. And I'll break out the checkbook, regardless of how distasteful I find it.
The fact that they're even willing to take money from motherfuckers like me or Nolan Sullivan isn't lost on me, however. Like I said, no one in this world is innocent. Everyone is guilty. I'm just more honest about my sins than most.
Tonight, Brynna is my sin. And I plan to sin like a motherfucker.
"Thank you," I murmur, plucking the ticket from Nicolas's hand before climbing from the limo. I straighten my jacket and stride forward, eager to set eyes on Sullivan's gorgeous daughter again.
Our meeting yesterday left me…unsettled. Actually, that's not true. I've been watching her for the last week. Every damn time I see her, I walk away with the same feeling.
She isn't what I expected. There's a grim brittleness to most of the women born in this world, a jaded cynicism that's impossible to miss. They're hard, as rotten at the core as the rest of us. There's nothing remotely jaded or cynical about Brynna. There's nothing grim, brittle, or rotten about her, either. She's soft and sweet, an innocent little lamb to the slaughter.
Fuck.
That innocence shouldn't make my cock ache the way it does.
I hand my ticket to the attendant at the door, not missing the way his eyes widen or the way his hand trembles as he accepts it.
He clears his throat, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Uh, enjoy your evening, Mr. Leyva."
I don't bother to respond, instead stepping past him into the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers spill golden light over opulent decor and gleaming marble floors. Massive flower arrangements scent the air, adding to the cloying mix of expensive perfume and cologne. It's fucking ridiculous. They're here to support a charity, yet they waste thousands just to surround themselves in luxury while they do it.