Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 98075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I was escorted upstairs, only this time he guided me to a new door. When he pushed it open, I sucked in a sharp breath. Luka hadn’t been lying about packing up my dorm room. It appeared to all be here in this bedroom, which looked as generic as mine was. My clothes hung in the closet. There were open boxes set on the bed and I could see my belongings in there—pictures of my family, the packet from Duke, and my used textbooks.
Luka gestured to the boxes. “Get what you need and follow me.”
I loaded my text books in my arms, only for Luka to take them from me.
When I reached for my laptop, his voice was sharp. “No.”
I froze. “I need it for online stuff.”
He shook his head. “Not today, you don’t.”
My fingertips slid over the cool metal case of my laptop, longing for everything I could access from it. I wanted more than anything to look up information on Luka Markovic, rather than figure out how to send a cry for help. How twisted was that?
I collected my planner and another book, hugging them close. My fingers curled around the bindings made me feel normal again, if only for a minute. Luka carried my books under an arm, and gestured to the hallway. This time when we descended the stairs, he turned right, and I followed him across the hardwood. We went past what seemed to be a formal sitting room, and then he pushed open a door.
There was one oversized arched window on the front wall, casting morning light across the bookshelves that lined the room. A large, ornate desk sat in the center, perched on top of an Oriental rug. It seemed to be the focal point, but my gaze went to the shelves, where books and odds and ends had been carefully displayed, even over the fireplace opposite the window.
Luka set my textbooks on a tufted couch, but I drifted to the built-in bookcase, where my attention had landed on a framed photograph.
“Your mother?” I asked before I could think better of it. The image was of an attractive brunette holding a baby, while a young boy hugged her legs. His dark hair and darker eyes were instantly recognizable, even when he was five years old.
Luka’s posture went rigid. “Yeah, that’s her.” He pointed to the couch. “You’ll do your homework here.”
His mother had a slender frame, big brown eyes, and long, sleek hair the same color as his. Her high cheekbones made her look elegant, and her bright smile announced where Vasilije’s dimple came from. The picture filled me with sadness. What had happened to her? “She was beautiful.”
Luka took in a deep breath. I wasn’t sure if he was frustrated or caught off balance by my statement, so I hurried to the couch. I sank down beside the books and grabbed my planner, not wanting to make him angry.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “She was very beautiful.”
His expression gave nothing away, but his voice . . . the hurt there was unmistakable. I desperately wanted him to tell me more, but he didn’t. His face was shuttered as he went to the desk and sat behind the computer. I had a ton of reading to do for developmental biology, so I dug the textbook out of the stack, cracked it open, and got to work, refusing to let my thoughts wander toward the man sitting across from me.
After a while, I no longer noticed the clicking of his mouse or keyboard. I retreated into the science, shutting the world out.
We fell into a strange pattern the rest of the day, working in silence in his library, largely ignoring the other person. Yet, we were still intensely aware of each other. When he got up to take a phone call in the hallway, the room became cavernous and cold.
It felt like it was simply a room, and not a space we were sharing together.
Luka was gone for a while. Was this another test? The computer was right there, and he was probably still logged on. I kept myself rooted to the couch. I’d already made my choice to play the long game with Luka. Attempting escape would only make it take longer.
When he finally reappeared, he carried drinks in one hand and balanced two plates of sandwiches on the other. Grilled chicken croissants with honey mustard dressing, which tasted amazing. “You have a personal chef,” I said, “when it’s just you here at the house?”
Luka set his napkin on the plate and pushed it aside. “Whitney only works on the weekends. She prepares everything for the week ahead.”
“Oh.” I shouldn’t have been surprised that even Luka’s meals were planned and controlled.
After lunch, he went back to the computer and I moved on to organic chemistry. The day rolled on. At one point Luka rose from the desk, opened the trunk that doubled as a coffee table in front of the couch, and retrieved a quilt. He cast it over me, and I glanced up, surprised.