Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
The malicious glint in his eyes promised every horror he’d mentioned if she dared to hide her body.
She’d spent weeks in Van’s attic, crawling naked on the floor in front of Van, Liv, and Josh. It’d been four years since then, since anyone had seen her nude, but she hadn’t forgotten how to cope with the humiliation.
Lowering her arms, she focused on facts rather than feelings. She wouldn’t die from embarrassment. Tiago pulled down her top to degrade her, but it wouldn’t kill her.
She needed to be more resilient and think twice before striking back. For every awful setback and torment he put her through, she would just have to stand stronger, aim higher, and remain true to who she was and what she believed in. He could cut her open and mangle her body, but he could never destroy her.
Slowly, her breathing returned to normal, and the tremors faded from her limbs. When her heart settled into a calmer rhythm, she picked up the scissors.
The first brush of her hand through his hair made her sick. She didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to give him a damn thing, especially not a haircut with her tits hanging out.
But she powered through it, ran numb fingers through the thick, inky strands, and started clipping.
Growing up in poverty with three older brothers, she used to cut their hair all the time. Basic styles. Practical. Nothing sophisticated or attractive, like what a man with Tiago’s wealth and power would expect.
He dressed like a billionaire playboy in his crisp collared shirt, open at the neck, and dark fitted slacks. The cuffs of his sleeves buttoned neatly around strong wrists, his long fingers resting on his thighs.
He didn’t have a bulky build, not compared to Arturo or Van Quiso, but he was solid and tall. She had to stretch to see the crown of his head, even in his seated position.
As she carefully measured and snipped each section of hair, he didn’t leer at her bare chest or grab her ass. He was too controlled for that, too debonair and confident.
But put a weapon in his hand and all bets were off.
The more hair clippings that fell to his shoulders, the more she feared him. If he hated the style, he would kill her. If she accidentally nicked him or bumped his injuries, he would kill her. If she took too long and overextended his patience, he would kill her.
She was a human being with an expiration date, just like everyone else. But her expiration jumped closer with every movement she made. By the time she finished trimming the top of his head, her nerves were frayed and brittle.
His hair spiked in tousled, voluminous layers, each shiny black strand perfectly cut and finger-raked. She still needed to clean up the sides, but damn, it looked professional. The shorter, textured style made the angles of his shadowed jaw seem squarer, his eyes deeper and darker.
Those eyes beckoned like mysterious doors. As she gravitated toward them, they dipped, focusing on her mouth with too much attention.
She looked away and set down the scissors. “What happens if you don’t like it?”
“It’s just hair.” His fingers captured her nipple in an agonizing vise, wrenching her gaze back to his. “If it looks like shit, shave it all off.”
She pretended to ignore the stinging burn he’d inflicted on her breast and considered his words.
He wouldn’t kill her over a haircut? That was a relief, if he was telling the truth.
Last night, he said he wasn’t interested in fucking her. But his fingers told a different story as they meandered along the material gathered around her waist. His other hand joined in, and he inched the top of the dress lower, lower, baring her abdomen and the tips of her hipbones.
She held her breath as he lightly placed a palm over the reddish area on her stomach where he’d kicked her. His gaze lifted, narrowing on hers as he pressed his fingers against the soreness.
Her breath rushed out, but she didn’t whimper or show signs of distress. Maybe he wouldn’t rape her, but that didn’t make it easier to share the same air as him.
He was an aficionado of pain, and she was here to absorb the hurt, to wear the bruises of his art, until she escaped or died.
The thought was crippling.
She grabbed the cordless clippers and threw herself into completing the task. He sat quietly as she trimmed, shaped, and scattered tiny hairs to the floor. To avoid grazing his wounds, she had to lean in, which felt like she was putting her face next to the jaws of a lion.
He even smelled intimidating. With her nose so close to his neck, she detected notes of cypress, vetiver, and leather, all bound up in the heady scent of an alpha male.