Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
He smirks. “All in good time.” A wince replaces his cocky smile as he gets to his feet. “I’ll have my breakfast at five. Grapefruit, orange juice, coffee, and omelette with chili. Make sure it’s ready.”
Adjusting his pants over a hard-on impossible to miss, he limps from the room. I wait a good five minutes after the clack of his heels on the kitchen tiles has disappeared before I shut the door, leaning against it with wobbly legs. My shoulders shake with more unwelcome sobs, but I can’t stop them. It takes me a few minutes to find my control. I want to have another shower to wash away the remnants of Gabriel’s touch, but a glimpse at my phone tells me it’s past midnight. I have to wake in four hours, so I slip into bed and give myself over to the escape of a shallow and fitful sleep.
* * *
It’s torture when my alarm goes off at four. Oscar is stretched out on the foot of the bed, purring like an engine. He must’ve jumped through the window during the night. I can only spare him a quick cuddle, or I’ll be late. I put last night out of my mind, making a conscious decision to not dwell on the shameful memory. Torturing myself with the details won’t change anything.
I’ll only make it harder on myself.
After a shower, I dress in the morbid, black dress and tie my hair into a ponytail. Knowing I’ll be on my feet all day, I slip on my trainers. Half an hour later, I’m in the kitchen, chopping chili for Gabriel’s omelette while the coffee percolates. Cooking comes easy for me. I’ve fed Charlie and myself since I was fourteen. I miss my brother so much. We’ve never been apart. It feels as if my anchor has been dislodged, and I’m floating aimlessly in a dark and treacherous sea.
My back is turned to the door, but I know the minute Gabriel walks into the kitchen. I first feel and then smell him. Heat creeps up my spine, making me break out in a cold sweat. The air becomes thick like smoke hard to breathe. My body registers his scent from where I’ve categorized it in my brain, connecting the dots to the sensual experience from last night, an experience I’d rather forget, but I can’t help the powerful association. The clean, spicy fragrance of his skin triggers an unwanted reaction in my belly, contracting my womb with a fluttering echo of my first orgasm. My cheeks flame at the thought. I hope he’ll think it’s from the hot stove plate.
“Good morning, Valentina.”
That voice again. Now that I’m less frightened, it leaves a complex mixture of sensory impressions on me––dark, smooth, bittersweet, and deep. Like burnt sugar. I glance over my shoulder. He’s dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. His hair is damp and his beard trimmed.
I fold his omelette, doing my best not to let my nerves show. “Good morning.”
He comes to stand next to me, so close that our hips almost touch, and reaches for two mugs in the cupboard above. As he pours the coffee with a steady hand, mine holding the spatula starts shaking.
“Sleep well?” He pushes one of the mugs toward me, angling the scarred side of his face away.
Of course not. “Yes, thank you.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Later.”
“We can share the omelette.”
“I can’t eat this early.”
I’d rather die of hunger than share his omelette. It’s an illogical thought, since he gives me the allowance that pays for my food, but I have to hold on to whatever pride I can salvage.
“The doctor emailed your blood test results. You’re clean.”
Our eyes lock when I involuntarily jerk my head in his direction. We both know what this means. As soon as the birth control takes, he’ll fuck me. Unless he uses a condom to do it sooner. Before he can say anything else, I serve his omelette on the plate I heated in the warmer drawer and carry it to the dining room. Then I disappear to start my duties for the day, trying not to think about what he said in the kitchen or that I’d become a maid with benefits. A whore.
* * *
I quickly get a handle on the house routine. Carly gets up at six and leaves the house at seven without breakfast. Marie comes in at eight, places the grocery orders for the day, and starts preparing lunch. I give her my habitual shopping list. My staple diet consists of instant noodles and apples. Apples are cheap, filling, and nutritious. The noodles give me a boost of energy when my blood sugar levels drop too low. I need the bulk of the money I save for Charlie and my studies.
As I make the bed in Gabriel’s room, I try not to gawk at his private space, but my curiosity outweighs my manners. Like him, the room is overly masculine. Heavy, silver-gray curtains drape the windows, and his furniture is bulky, modern, and square. The bed is bigger and longer than a king size. The monogramed initials on the sheets indicate they’re custom made. The fabric is soft between my fingers. A glance at the label tells me it’s a high-thread Egyptian cotton. There are many black and white photos of landscapes and buildings on the wall.