Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
The thought of my mind deciding he’s too good a human being to touch me while I’m out cold is unsettling to say the least. He only sewed me up so I wouldn’t bleed out in his house because he needed me to answer his questions. He needs me right now. That’s all. Once he has the information he needs, what will he do with me? Let me walk away? I doubt it. What will happen to Wren if something happens to me? They’ll put her in some crappy under-funded state institution. There’s no way I’ll allow that.
I tug at the chain. It’s thin but has no give. I can’t break it. I slip my finger under the collar. I should be able to get it off. It just snaps into place usually. But then I notice the one thing of mine he left in the room. The collar that goes with my uniform. It’s on the nightstand.
“Zeke!” I call out as loud as I can. I don’t get a response, so I do it again. My head throbs but I push through the pain. I turn to face the headboard fully to give the chain some slack as I examine it. Patience has never been my forte and I grip it again, my one hand useless when it starts to bleed a little. I get up on my knees and grip the rung I’m bound to. I’m forced to lean forward because the chain is so damn short. I tug at the chain, then, when nothing happens, I shake the rung.
“Now that is a sight I can get used to,” says a low, deep voice I’m starting to hate.
I look back over my shoulder to find Ezekiel St. James standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, casually sipping from a cup of coffee, and grinning that sly asshole grin of his. He’s just watching me.
Watching my bare ass which is fully on display in my current position bent over as I try to break myself out.
“You asshole! You fucking drugged me!”
I drop to a seat, turn to face him while trying to gather up the blanket that has slid to the floor so I can at least cover myself.
“Is asshole really the only word you can come up with? It’s getting boring, Bluebird.”
It’s startling to hear him call me by my full name. That name belongs to a different life. Then I remember giving it to him. What did I say my last name was? Smith?
“Untie me! Now!” I demand.
He chuckles, casually walks in. “You don’t give the orders, sweetheart.” He puts his coffee on the nightstand and digs two pills out of his pocket. “For the pain.” He holds them out to me.
“No, thank you! I’m not going to willingly swallow your drugs!”
“Advil,” he says. “Take them.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” He sets them on the nightstand, and I’m tempted, because everything hurts, but I don’t touch them.
He bends to pick up the heavy duvet which I only managed to get a corner of and sets it on my lap, then sits down beside me. He smells fresh and looks well-rested. His five-o’clock shadow is trimmed to perfection, his dark hair neatly combed back. He smells clean, of expensive soap and aftershave with hints of sandalwood and leather and why the fuck am I breathing him in?
“What are you going to do to me?”
His gaze skims over me. “Anything I want.”
I try to keep my expression neutral as I swallow, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“You’re mine now, Little Convict. You belong to me.”
“You drugged me,” I say after a beat, unable or unwilling to think about what that means. I take in his clothing, a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt of which he’s left the top button undone and has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My gaze catches on the tattoos circling both forearms. Twin snakes?
“Occupational hazard? You’ve done this before, right?” he asks.
I jut my chin out in response. How does he know?
“Back to your ass. I have to say, as a connoisseur, you do have an exceptionally lovely backside.”
I drag my gaze up to his. Fury roils inside me, boiling my blood at his casualness, his nonchalance. All I can do in the face of this is raise my arms, make a fist of my good hand, and attack.
He laughs, catches both wrists. “Settle down. Feisty little convict, aren’t you?”
“This isn’t a fucking joke! I’m not playing some stupid game—”
“Neither am I, sweetheart,” he says, tone serious as he squeezes my wrists. “Calm the fuck down.”
“My sister!” I remember suddenly. “That man. Dex? What did he do?” I tug to get free of him.
“Take it easy.”
“I answered your questions. You said if I—”
“I said take it easy. She’s fine. Wren’s fine.”