Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Ethan. The man who has owned every forbidden thought in my mind since Thursday night. Who I’ve secretly fantasized about while trying to escape from the nightmare that has become my life. The memory of his kiss, the way he stood up for me to Gerald, is what’s gotten me through every dark moment since I found my brother dead.
My brother is dead.
He’s gone and never coming back.
No distraction or fantasy is going to change that.
I briefly close my eyes to push away the grief and, when I open them, I find Ethan staring at me. What is he doing here? Is it possible he’s here to save me? None of this makes any sense. How would he even know I’m here?
He looks different from the last time I saw him. I thought he was good-looking in the darkness of the club, but looking at him now in the light, he surpasses every fantasy he’s starred in.
Trailing my eyes over him, I notice his hair is gelled neatly to the side, not a single hair out of place. His tanned complexion is flawless. His perfectly structured jawline makes him look even more intense than he did the other night, but it’s covered by a light stubble giving off a too lazy to care vibe. However, when you get to his suit, it’s clear he does care. His suit looks expensive—much like the other night—and it fits his body like it was made for him. His jacket is open, revealing his perfectly ironed white dress shirt, and the first three buttons are undone. This man is a walking contradiction. A walking sexy contradiction.
That thought snaps me back to reality. I am tied up against my will, waiting like a sitting duck to be sold to God knows who by the psycho who murdered my brother. My thoughts need to be on escaping, not on how beautiful the man standing in front of me is—even if he has become the perfect escape.
My eyes lock with his once again, and I force myself to look away, needing to gather myself to formulate a plan. Until proven otherwise, I can’t trust anyone—including him. I notice the sleek black gun in his hand, which reminds me of my brother being killed. My body goes cold, the blood draining downward. After seeing Stephen lying dead on his living room floor with a gunshot wound in his chest, I don’t think I’ll ever look at a gun the same.
“Angel,” he says, bringing my attention back to his face. His eyes are cold mixed with a bit of confusion. Wait, he called me Angel. Does he think I’m somebody else? Does he not recognize me?
“My name is Nevaeh,” I choke out.
He walks into the room, the door staying open behind him. The closer he gets to me, the faster my heart pounds against my chest. This isn’t the same man I kissed in the club. He looks darker now, more dangerous. Oh my God! A thought strikes me. He’s standing in the house of the man who took me, who is planning to sell me, which means he must know him. My fight-or-flight instincts kick in, only I can’t do either because I’m trapped here, tied up and unable to run, unable to fight.
Ethan squats in front of me so we’re eye level.
“What’s your last name?” he asks, his voice silky smooth, as if he’s not the least bit concerned he just walked in on a woman being held against her will. I consider lying to him, but have a feeling if he finds out I lied, my situation could potentially worsen—if that’s even possible.
“Hansen.”
He nods slowly, then peers down at my wrists. They’re bound together with a thick rope and wrapped around the leg of a heavy oak desk, holding me in place and preventing me from getting up to run. His fingers brush against the blood-coated burns that the rope has created from several hours of me trying to get loose. When I flinch at the pain of his touch, he doesn’t apologize or even look sorry.
“Are you here to save me?” The words come out hoarse, barely audible, but I know he heard me.
Ignoring my question, he puts his gun back into his holster then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small wooden pocket knife, pressing a button so the sharp, tiny blade pops up. My body jerks instinctively, wanting to flee but knowing it has nowhere to go. The hand that’s not holding the knife goes to my bare knees, stilling my shaking legs.
“Relax, Angel.” I’m shocked at how quickly my body relaxes at his words. Angel. That’s the second time he’s called me that.
“Why do you keep calling me Angel?” I ask, but Ethan ignores my question yet again, moving the knife toward my body.