Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“You’re not going to let us go, though, are you?” I ask, understanding. Or maybe I understood all along, and this is accepting. I steel myself in his grip and force my knees to lock, my legs to carry me. I push his arms off and lean away.
“I never said I was, princess.”
“I’m not your princess. Don’t ever call me that again.”
“Daddy’s nickname for you?”
I grit my jaw and shove at his chest. I need space. Need to be away from him because everything is confused when he’s so close. But it’s like trying to move a fucking brick wall.
“I’m happy to stick with Dandelion. It’ll help me remember. Either way, you will do as you’re told tonight. You will walk into that church on my arm. You will answer I do when asked. And you will sign the papers set before you. And after—”
“And after, you’ll let me see Emma.”
He nods with a tilt of his head and a smile that could fool anyone into thinking him a gentleman.
“I’m glad you understand,” he says.
“I understand perfectly, Amadeo. I understand perfectly what you are. The lengths you’ll go to get your precious revenge.” I stand taller and move closer, close enough that my chest presses against his because fuck space. I can’t be afraid of this man. This beast. But the touching of our bodies carries a sensation I don’t want. One I can’t process. And I have to tamp down the emotions I’m feeling, the confusion. “Now you understand this. I see you for what you are. I. See. You. And if you think you’re somehow better than my brother or my father, you’re not. You’re the same as them. And in me, you will have an enemy in your home.”
A heavy moment hangs between us, his eyes dark, the storm clouds collecting. Any hint of that fraudulent gentle smile has vanished. He brings the knuckles of one hand to my cheek. I don’t know if he’s brushing away a tear or what, but when he leans in close enough that the stubble along his jaw brushes my cheek and his breath tickles my ear, it raises every hair on the back of my neck, and I shudder.
“An enemy in my bed,” he says in a low, deep rumbling of his chest before he inhales as if memorizing my scent. He takes the lobe of my ear between his teeth.
I draw a shuddering breath and press my hands to his chest when one of his comes to my breast, cupping it, kneading the taut nipple.
“I wonder who you will hate more, me or yourself, when you lie beneath me. When you beg for release.”
“I will never beg you.”
He draws back, bringing his forehead to mine, our eyes locked.
“Won’t you?” Keeping me trapped with my back against the counter, he slides his hand over my stomach and into my leggings. I gasp as his fingers slip into my panties and curl around my sex.
My exhale is a trembling of breath, and I swallow audibly.
He grins. A small victory for him as they circle my clit.
“Won’t you, Dandelion?”
“I hate you,” I say as I stare stupidly up at him while he expertly moves his fingers until I’m on tiptoe, leaning into him, hands pressed against his chest as my traitorous body chooses a side. His.
“I’m sure you do. But you hate yourself more,” he says, drawing his hand out and checking the time on his watch. He smiles, showing me all his teeth. He turns me toward the exit and wraps a big hand around the back of my neck. “Let’s get married, Dandelion.”
21
Bastian
It would be better to do this if my head wasn’t back in Italy. On the woman there. What I know is happening there while I am here. I accused my brother of forgetting the endgame, but where the fuck is my head? I’m fucking jealous.
I close my eyes and tell myself to focus.
We should do this under cover of night, but Lucien Russo’s penthouse is impenetrable, especially since we took Vittoria.
I wonder if he has secured it so completely only for fear of us or his other enemies. I know for a fact he’s made many. He and his father both.
I have a photo of the little girl. Emma Russo. She’s a tiny thing with a shock of curly blond hair like her sister’s and big brown eyes. I sit in the SUV with Jarno as we watch her walk out of the small private school, which I guess is more of a daycare at her age. Her nanny, Hyacinth Brown, waits outside. Theirs is the only black sedan with tinted windows and a driver who looks like a fucking wrestler. The wrestler is currently dragging on the last of his cigarette as the little girl slips her hand into her nanny’s, showing her a picture she must have drawn.