Page 121 of The Rancher's Secret Relationship

That's right, angel.

Hate me.

Guilt twisted in his guts even as his body moved on autopilot. Gaudy neon lights outlined the slippery driveway, but Flint bypassed this to pick the lock of a set of panoramic sliding doors at the back.

She followed him inside, not making a sound. But even he knew that she had other reasons for not saying a word. It was obvious that she wasn't even angry at him. She was just hurt, her heart shattered in pieces. Because she was a real-life angel whose greatest misfortune was running into an asshole like him.

Flint bit back an expletive upon realizing where his thoughts had taken him.

Get your head back in the game, dammit.

The interior of the cottage was as tasteless as it was on the outside. Taking center stage in the living room was a tall stonefountain...adorned with sculptures of bikini-clad women with cat ears. Framed movie posters hung on the walls, all of them featuring the bestselling adult films from all over the world. Even the furniture was an eyesore: a massive leopard-printed rug, zebra-striped couches, and a coffee table with a stack of Playboy magazines in full display.

He glanced at Elizabeth over his shoulder and was not surprised at how badly she was struggling not to gape.

Flint raised a brow in question, and Elizabeth seemed just about to mouth her answer when the light in her eyes suddenly died, and he knew that was the moment she remembered his words from earlier.

Don't play dumb.

She jerked her gaze away, and his throat burned at all the words he wished he could say.

I'm sorry.

It's not what you think.

I don't mean to hurt you.

But he couldn't.

Because the moment she started to matter to him was the moment Flint had to cut things off.

Completely.

Permanently.

And in the most vicious way possible so that there was no turning back for either of them.

Stab

EVERY SECOND SEEMSto last forever, but I'm not sure if it's because I'm heartbroken for the first time...or it's because I suddenly find myself guilty of breaking and entering, also for the first time.

My surroundings only grow increasingly bizarre as Flint leads us deeper into the basement.

A seemingly endless hallway snakes before us, with doors on each side. And with every step we take, the more vulgar and crazier it gets.

I know I should be more terrified and cautious, but it's difficult to remember the owner of this place as a hardened criminal when his interior design choices include tanks filled with floating fish-shaped condoms (why would people even create this?), peach-shaped bedroom doors (why?), and last but not the least, a powder room with velvet ropes for walls, and a Japanese toilet with what I can only presume to be DC's own face, paintedPicassostyle, as a seat cover.

The more I see, the more I think we're at the wrong place.

How can my Sunlight be—-oh!

That noise!

I grab the back of Flint's shirt in a frantic tug and point to the door on my left.

He raises a brow, and I nod vehemently. If you've been around dogs long enough, you'll know the sound of them making zoomies, and—-who is this guy?

My jaw drops as Flint steps up to the door’s security panel. His fingers move with a precision that’s almost hypnotic—tap here, push there, twist this, slide that.

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