Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“Your heart is beating faster than a rabbit’s. Afraid?” He grips my jaw, his gaze darting to my lips.
“I’m not afraid of you.” I feel the tension in my body, but it’s different now. Not the sick, sinking feeling from what happened on the elevator. Lucius makes me feel more. He always has, ever since I saw him when I was still a girl, when Red was still alive. Handsome and oh-so-bad, the cocky Lucius Vinemont was my teenage fantasy. Because I didn’t know what bad was back then. Not really.
I do now. I know evil. I’ve seen it. And right now, the most evil man I’ve ever known has me crushed to his chest, his gaze darting to my lips. No, this fear is not the same as in the elevator, but I wish it was. I wish I had only fear and revulsion for him.
I wish I’d never set eyes on Lucius Vinemont.
“Not afraid of me?” He tsks. “If that’s true, then you aren’t as intelligent as you seem.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Because I will find you out, Evelyn Delacroix. I will learn your secrets and use them to destroy you. Soon enough, you’ll be begging me for mercy, but I won’t give you any.”
“If you’re done threatening me, I’d like to leave now.”
“You sure?” He slides his hand to my throat and rests it there like a collar. “My offer from last night still stands. That prim little suit you’re wearing would look even better on my bedroom floor.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I try to breathe, to clear the panic from my mind, to pretend the desire isn’t there. I thought I’d killed it. Just like Lucius killed my entire family. That’s what snaps me out of it. That memory of ash and crimson blood. I hate the man. Nothing more.
“Get off me.” I grit the words between my teeth.
He squeezes my throat, but not too hard. “See you around, Evelyn.” Releasing me, he backs up but stops only a few feet away.
His eyes burn into me as I fumble at the door handle, finally get it, then slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door. I back out quickly and speed away, his gaze still on me until I turn at the end of the row and finally escape.
The panic attack hits me a few blocks later, and I have to park, open the door, and empty my guts onto the street. Cold sweat covers me as I sit back up and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. I reach into my bag for a tissue, but my fingers meet the envelope. I pull my hand back as if burned and fight another wave of nausea.
I can’t do this, can’t have anything to do with them again. As much as I hate the Vinemonts—and I do—I hate the Acquisition just as much. Cruel and wrong, it was the catalyst to my downfall, to everything that ended with the flare of a match in a Vinemont’s fingers. I can almost smell the ash, the sickly scent of burning bodies. The look in my brother’s dead eyes.
Opening my door again, I empty what little is left in my stomach, then slam the door and rest my head on the steering wheel. Skin clammy, body still trembling, I take deep breaths.
I can’t run from this. Just like I can’t run from Lucius now that he’s found me. Now that I screwed up and overplayed my hand.
Foolish. I was so fucking foolish to think I could kill my nightmare with a simple bullet. Tears burn in my eyes, but I blink them away. I have to be strong. This changes nothing. I’m going to crush him, to leave his entire legacy in ruin. I have to. For Red and for me.
I take a deep breath and fight back the memories of Red’s blood on Lucius’s knife, of the way Lucius had killed him with an almost perfunctory motion. Lucius Vinemont dotted the i’s, crossed his t’s, and sank his blade into my brother’s beating heart.
A sob tries to work its way from my throat, but I swallow it down. Down, down, down, so deep it will never see the light of day. I’m not Evie Witherington anymore. I’m Evelyn Delacroix. Not powerless, not weak.
“You have to face it. All of it.” My words are as shaky as my resolve.
With a trembling hand, I pull the envelope from my bag. The edges are crisp, the paper expensive, the gold leaf likely real. My name—my real name, is written in a beautiful, sweeping hand. My stomach turns again. Shuddering, I stuff the letter back in my bag. I’ll open it later, after I’ve had a drink or three. That’s when I can face it. But not here. Not now. Not when I’m blindsided.