Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Good to know. Have we found Armand’s location?”
Silence for a full minute.
“Henri?”
“We did, sir, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Why not?” Cain’s voice is tight. “Why the hell not?”
“Because he’s… he’s been here the whole time, sir. We found a camp in the basement that we thought was vacant, but now know he’s been using for his hiding spot. Not often by the looks of it, but he’s come here more than once.”
I curse under my breath.
“We fingerprinted the place and found for sure he was there. As for his current location, I suspect your plan to bait him at the Willows is sound, sir.”
They disconnect.
“He suspects,” Cain mutters. “Well, I suspect my staff’s in deep shit for not finding out Armand was sneaking around our property.”
I nod. “I understand.”
He looks at me sharply, then turns away again.
We pull up to the Willows, and he parks his truck. He blows out a breath when he faces me. “So…”
“So,” I respond, wrapping my arms on my chest.
“We’re supposed to pretend we’re in love.”
“Right, if he knows that you and I… aren’t…”
I don’t even know how to say it. It’s utter bullshit that because of his mistake, I feel wounded and hurt. Abandoned like I did when I was a child, because the one person I thought I could trust is a liar.
I am pretending, though. Do I have to pretend to care about the man who knows me inside and out? Who’s taken such good care of me these past four months? Who drew me out of the shell I lived in?
Who made me whole?
“How does one…” my voice is a little wobbly. “Pretend to love someone?”
His jaw clenches. “We could… kiss,” he says with a frown. “That’s a dead giveaway… I guess.”
How could I kiss him? How could I do anything with him right now? Is he frowning because he doesn’t want to kiss me? Knowing that I’m leaving, does he feel… repulsed by me?
I’m mentally warring with myself, my pulse racing.
He was the one who chose this.
He was the one that put me in this position to begin with.
Argh!
“Or,” he says thoughtfully, “we could… maybe—”
He thinks he won’t kiss me? He thinks I’m not worthy of his attention or something? Oh no. Oh hell no.
I reach for him. I frame his face with my hands and yank him down to me. He freezes for long seconds as our lips connect. My own body stills. Everything but my heartbeat.
The sun feels cold compared to the heat in his kiss. My heart flutters, sending little bolts of awareness to my fingertips. I melt when his tongue finds mine. His own deep, male groan echoes through my core, and when he releases my face long enough for his fingers to stab into my hair, I fade into heat and warmth and light.
My pulse races with the memory of our bodies joined as lovers. Memories surface, one at a time, like a photo montage. Cain, standing against the background of the ocean the first day we met. That stark beauty in his eyes only I understand, the steady anchoring of hands on hips displaying the courage he sometimes feigns. For wounded people like me and Cain sometimes cower. We sometimes hide. We don’t tell the truth because we fear being left behind.
And isn’t that the crux of it.
As he kisses me, a soft cry escapes my lips, and he makes it his with a deep inhale. That’s what he does—absorbs my pain, my emotions, my deepest longings, into his very being. Unites himself with me.
I crave the push of his fingers on my scalp, and the sharp but brief flare of pain when he tugs my hair. Another tug makes me moan, then I’m on my back and he’s on top of me, and my body melts beneath him like it knows what to do.
I’m spreading my legs, already so ready for him a few well-timed thrusts would break me apart, when I freeze.
I pull my head away. “Cain,” I say. Why is my voice choked? Why are my cheeks wet?
He doesn’t answer at first, but kisses my temple, my damp cheeks, then my lips again before he grates, “What, baby? Let me in you, Violet. We’re alone here. The doors are locked, and if we want fucking Armand to believe we’re really together…”
I shake my head. “No. We can’t fuck this up. We have to stay focused, because this is crucial.” My voice breaks. “It’s why I came here.”
With reluctance I feel deep, deep in my belly, he pulls himself off of me, but not before he brushes his lips against my cheek, then lifts my fingers and kisses them, too. “Here, Violet. Press your fingers to your lips when you want to remember me kissing you.”
I watch him go. It feels heavy and dark when he turns away from me.