Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 19307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
"You."
The way he murmurs the word makes me think of another You. It's this TV series about a stalker, and that's what he calls his victims.
You.
And now this man is calling me that, too, and God, oh God, does that mean I'm a would-be victim of some psycho who thinks he can be this year's Netflix-famous criminal?
"What's your name?"
Hearing him say more than one syllable makes me realize he has an accent. Middle East, I'm almost a hundred percent certain, since our hotel frequently caters to wealthy Arab families, and shit, shit, shit, why the hell am I thinking about accents now, when my freaking life is on the line?
I'm beginning to realize I'm flirting with the edge of panic and hysteria, but I'm afraid he'll end up shooting me dead if I so much as blink.
"Answer me."
The impatience in his tone nearly makes me jump, and I blurt my name out. "Seven."
His gaze narrows at me, and I find myself distracted yet again. The man's eyes are...gold, and the fact that I care to notice this just makes everything feel more surreal. Is it like this for others, too? Am I thinking crazy thoughts because I'm in shock?
"Your face."
Oh God. Why does he suddenly sound so curt? And what about my face? What do I do if he finds me so repugnant to look at that he'd want to gouge my eyes out and cut my nose and—-
"Someone hit you."
Uh...okay.
Is he mad that someone beat him to...beating me up?
His thumb is suddenly on my cheek, and I can't help but tremble at how hot and tender his touch feels. He has a gun pointed at my head, but he's touching me like I'm precious, and the way it totally doesn't make any sense leaves me disoriented.
"Who did this?"
I start to shake my head, but then I see his golden eyes flare anew with impatience, and it scares me enough to break my silence. "It's just...just someone I know—-"
"A man?" he demands. "A woman?"
"A woman."
"Why did she hit you?"
"Because I owe her money." I say it in a nearly inaudible whisper in hopes he wouldn't hear it...but he still does.
"You owe her money?"
I want to say yes, but the thought of lying - and getting caught doing so - fills me with fear, and I say reluctantly, "My mom did."
"And you took it upon yourself to pay it back?"
Is it just me or does he sound furious while saying that?
"But you haven't quite managed to, have you?"
I'm unable to think of what to say, distracted as I am by the sight of him suddenly taking a step back...and another and another.
What the hell is he planning to do?
I have this stupid urge to cry as I watch him back away while the gun stays pointed at my head. When you're a kiss away from death, I think that's when you realize how most of your problems are frivolous, and that's certainly how I feel now, when I think about how I've wallowed in self-pity and anguish, every time someone confronted me about Mom's evil deeds.
If I survive this, I promise myself, I will never, ever stress over things that are out of my control. I'm going to focus on the positive. I'm...I'm done being an ungrateful bitch, so please God, please don't let me die!
The distance between the gunman and me has stretched to the entire length of the room by the time my feverish prayer comes to an end, and all sorts of crazy thoughts infiltrate my brain when I see him actually take his gaze off me as he pulls a drawer open.
Should I make a run for it? Even if I'm clumsy as hell? I should, shouldn't I?
"Don't even think of it," the gunman murmurs like he's totally read my mind...all the while putting his gun away.
Why is he putting his gun away?
He turns his gaze back to me as leisurely as you please, and the thoughts in my head take an even crazier bent.
Could he have changed his mind about shooting me to death...because he wants to prolong my torture? What if he's not just a fan of You? What if he's also into movie franchises like Saw and Hostel and—-oh my God, Seven, stop trying to scare yourself to death, dammit!
My gaze swings back to his, and this time, a few more things about the gunman start to sink in, none of them comforting. At all.
He's impeccably dressed in a suit that's worth more than my wages for the entire year, but what worries me the most is just how dazzlingly gorgeous he is.
I was too frightened to realize this a while ago, but now that my shock has started to wear off, I'm able to take in all the other little details of his appearance. There's the ebony shade of his hair, the angular prominence of his cheekbones, and the way his overnight stubble just makes his lips appear more devastatingly...sensual.