Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Odin is standing beside my father, who is glaring at me or Santos or, most likely, both of us.
The music picks up pace as if the orchestra was just told to distract the crowd. The noise level rises again as people return to their conversations.
“I need a drink,” I say and attempt to walk past Santos, but I trip over nothing. He catches me and quickly positions me so that it looks like we’re about to join the dancers—one arm around my waist, the other holding my hand, my body against his.
The racing of my heart intensifies. I feel like it’s going to beat right out of my chest. My skin burns where he’s touching me and it takes all I have to look up at him.
“I think you’ve had more than you can handle,” he says as if he was giving me time to muster up the courage to look at him.
I snort, wanting to sound casual and unaffected although I’m pretty sure I’m not fooling him. “I don’t think you know what I can handle.”
“Not to mention the pills,” he adds. Before I can begin to wonder how he knows, he drops the façade of the dance and releases me as he takes my clutch and opens it.
“That’s mine,” I say, trying to take it back.
He holds it just out of reach. “Be still,” he commands, and I swallow as my body obeys. It fucking obeys.
But what am I going to do, run?
From inside my clutch, he lifts out my flask. He’s got his back to the room so no one but I will see. He lets go of that and takes out the small, now empty bottle where I’d kept the pills. No label.
“What were they?” he asks, focusing on my eyes. Is he checking my pupils? Is that why he’s been looking at me so intensely?
“Just painkillers. I had a headache.” It’s only half a lie.
“Headache? Hmm.” He puts the bottle back before closing the clutch and handing it to me. “Let’s go.” He wraps a possessive arm around my lower back, his big hand curling around my waist and turning me toward the curtained exit I’d been hoping to make my way out of earlier.
I move because I don’t have much choice, but being this close to him, touching him, it’s got my insides knotted up. We walk down the corridor and toward the front entrance, where a large reception desk stands. The ballroom is housed in the old mansion and behind it is a more modern building of about twenty luxury residences. People mill about, and I don’t miss the looks they give us as we cross to the elevators. We bypass the ones that lead to the apartments on all but the top floors, and I watch him take a key card out of his wallet and scan it.
The elevator doors slide open, and with just the slightest pressure at my lower back, he signals for me to enter. I do and stand as far away from him as possible, clutch tucked under my arm, arms crossed over my chest. He scans his card again and pushes the button for the top floor where the most luxurious residence is. There are two, and they take up the uppermost floors. I’ve never been to them, but they’re supposed to be stunning. I have no doubt they are.
Santos types out a text as we ride up, and I watch the back of his head.
Once the elevator doors slide open, he looks my way and gestures with a nod of his head for me to step out. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or not that he doesn’t touch me.
“Straight ahead,” he says.
I walk toward the double doors, where a man stands guard. He’s a soldier. Same as the ones who accompanied him to prom. I know it in my gut. This is no simple bodyguard.
Soldiers.
This family employs actual soldiers. It’s why he wants me, though. Because legitimate businessmen don’t have soldiers.
No, this isn’t about me. I need to keep that at the forefront of my mind. It’s why he wants a De Léon. If I had an older sister, he’d have taken her. The De Léon family is an established, permanent fixture of Avarice. My ancestors are a founding family, in fact. A union between us will legitimize the Augustine name. They may not quite be embraced by high society, but they’ll at least be tolerated once our families are joined.
The soldier nods in greeting. Santos’s hand hovers at my back. I’m not sure if it’s the painkillers, the combination with the alcohol or just proximity to him, but even though his hand isn’t quite touching me, I feel the heat of it on my skin.
“Go on,” Santos says once the soldier opens the door. I enter, my heart racing. It’s quiet up here, so completely still. I look around the large living room, open kitchen, and floor to ceiling windows. The views of the cliffs and the wild ocean are amazing, when you can stand to look at them.