Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
For now, it makes sense to get unpacked in what has become my bedroom. I would like the much larger room Enzo lives out of, but I’m not trying to share space with him, either. I’ll make do with a smaller closet and a smaller dresser. It isn’t like I have all that much, anyway. Only what he’s bought for me.
I have nothing of my own. Even my son, should he be born, wouldn’t be mine. He’d be Enzo’s to mold and shape.
This is not the time for tears of frustration and sadness to well up in my eyes, but the timing has been off throughout this entire nightmare. I shove the suitcase aside and sit on the bed, staring at the floor. It blurs thanks to my tears, but I blink them back just in case he walks in and finds me crying. For some reason, putting up a front matters. I don’t need him knowing how vulnerable I feel right now, even if I’m sure he could guess. He might be a real bastard when he puts his mind to it, but he does possess a level of emotional intelligence he couldn’t possibly have inherited from his grandfather. Like one small part of him wasn’t destroyed by that man.
I’m just tired, is all. At least here, in Miami, I might not feel quite so lost at sea. If I’m going back to school, that means having a little bit of myself back. I need that. I need to feel like me, not like some captured, tormented prisoner. I might be able to sleep better at night—falling asleep over my books sounds a lot better than crying myself to sleep.
I didn’t bother closing the door all the way, and I barely have a warning signal of Enzo’s footfalls before it creaks open. “Bored with unpacking?” he asks, sizing up the situation in a single glance.
“I’m tired. My body can’t keep up with the time change, swinging back and forth like I’ve been doing.” Maybe he’ll believe that. Right now, I don’t care whether or not he does, so long as he leaves me alone.
“You’d better adjust because this isn’t a vacation. You have work to do here. I hope you haven’t forgotten.”
I shouldn’t let him get to me like this, but if I don’t vent at least a little bit of the bitterness eating me up inside, I’ll either explode or crumble into dust. “Thanks for reminding me. It’s barely been a day and a half since we made our arrangement, but it’s nice of you to remind me, anyway.”
“I’ll chalk that up to fatigue after all this travel.”
I don’t really care either way, but I hold my tongue rather than lash out at him. He’ll only find a way to make me regret it later, so it isn’t worth the effort.
When he doesn’t leave, I look his way. He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, and I wish he didn’t look so good. The man already has me at a disadvantage. I don’t need to lust after him. “Is there anything else you want to talk about? Because I could really use some rest.”
He doesn’t answer right away, choosing instead to stare at me some more. I can’t get a read on him—his expression is impossible to understand. Finally, I can’t take the suspense anymore. “What is it? What do you want?”
His mouth tugs upward at the corner. “I was just thinking to myself. There you were, practically strutting into my study less than forty-eight hours ago, all commanding and full of confidence. I knew at the time it was an act, but to see the proof in front of me is something else. Look at you. Dejected, realizing you’re right back where you started.”
“That isn’t exactly why I was sitting here this way.” Though it was pretty damn close.
“I know it can’t be because you’re in love with me. That was just another one of your games, a way of using me. Isn’t that right?”
I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to let him twist me up. I’m practically biting my tongue against the litany of terrible, filthy things he needs to hear about himself, about his entire fucked-up family. He wants to hurt me. He wants me to break down. I will not give him that satisfaction.
And he knows it, and it’s driving him crazy. I can feel it, his frustration, practically reaching across the room to wrap itself around my throat the way he’s so often done with his hand.
Suddenly, he changes the subject. “I have something for you. A wedding gift.”
Immediately, instinct warns me against reacting. I’m not going to give him what he wants, dammit. He might have me trapped here, but I won’t play along. “I never imagined you would get me anything. I don’t have anything for you.”