Touch of Hate Read Online J.L. Beck, Cassandra Hallman

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Forbidden, Mafia, Romance Tags Authors: ,
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Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
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That happens often—in class and during conversations. My mind is always somewhere it doesn’t need to be. I’m thankful the year is ending. MIT isn’t for me, and I need to break the news to Tessa, but I will save that for another night. Tonight we are going to the end-of-year bash.

The theme: costume party.

“Finishing up my makeup.” I smile back, adding some gold shimmer to my left eye. I can feel Tessa assessing my costume, her gaze lingering. It is a little on the short side and definitely tighter than it needs to be, but I’m a big girl.

“You’re aware you’re not really an angel, right?” I catch her grinning at me in the mirror.

“And you’re aware you’re not really a butterfly, right?” I retort, cocking my head.

Pursing her lips, she flaps her arms, imitating a butterfly. “Don’t tell me what I can be.”

We both giggle, and I finish adding the final touches to my makeup. Looking in the mirror, I adjust my halo, which hangs a couple of inches above my head, secured with a headband.

I curled my hair earlier and am wearing a tight white dress with gold accents. I look innocent and sweet. I’m hoping that appeal will bring Ren out of hiding tonight. That is if he’s been the one following me all along. It could’ve been one of my father’s many bodyguards, but that isn’t likely.

They are there to protect us, and in no way, shape, or form would one of them dare to cross the line. Loyalty is huge to my father; he’d not only kill them but refuse to offer their families protection.

Thinking of them makes me pause, but not for long. This is hardly the first party we’ve snuck out to this year, and there’s never been a problem. It’s easy, really. If you understand the men tasked with protecting you are also creatures of habit. They have a schedule they follow day in and day out.

I check the time on my phone before slipping it into a small gold clutch.

“T-minus three minutes,” I announce, which Tessa knows is code for getting her ass in gear. We only have a small window while the men switch shifts at ten sharp. It has to be the most boring job in the world, sitting in front of an apartment with nothing to do but wait for danger to present itself.

If they’re lucky, it never does, which means spending hours bored out of their mind. Then again, my father pays them well.

And there are worse ways for a man to earn a living.

With all the caution of a couple of spies on a mission, Tessa and I hover by the front door. I open it no more than a crack, peering out into the hall. As always, music comes from at least one or two of the other apartments on this floor, overlapping TV shows and movies, with muffled conversations.

The difference?

The absence of the man whose job it is to sit outside the door. They don’t always stay put—they walk the halls rather than stay in one place for hours on end. Sitting still would drive me mental, so I understand.

After one glimpse, I find the hall empty, so I wave Tessa on behind me. We slip out, darting to the nearest stairwell, giggling softly like we’ve just broken some unholy rule.

While I won’t miss much about my experience here at MIT, I will miss this. The fun we have together, sneaking around, laughing about nothing important.

It’s two floors down to the ground level, where a keypad is mounted to the wall beside the door leading to the parking lot. My father insisted I stay in the most secure building on campus, and I can’t pretend it isn’t reassuring to know we have to enter a code to go in or out. Even if that little fact makes it less likely that Ren will be able to make secret visits.

Though if he could so easily sneak in and out of my father’s compound without so much as stepping on a creaking floorboard to give himself away, I’m sure learning a code isn’t beyond his skills.

I’m grasping at straws. It’s pretty pathetic.

The sense of freedom I feel stepping outside brings the same rush of relief it always does. I’m grateful for my father’s insistence on my safety, but at times, it’s hard to breathe with the sense of someone looking over my shoulder with every step I take.

Not somebody who I want to be looking after me, either.

As we walk away from the apartment building and cross the street, I scan the area around us. A matter of habit, yes—I’m still a Rossi, and I’ve heard too many stories over the years to ever completely let my guard down. Even if I wasn’t a Rossi, I’m still a girl walking the streets at night.


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