Page 9 of Greed: The Savage
Knock.
Condescending.
Knock.
Infuriating!
“I’m coming,” Addien shouted.
The miserable cur kept up his incessant pounding. “You are pressing too hard upon my patience. We are on the verge of being late if you don’t get yourself out here now, Addien.”
Her panic picked up. Addien frantically resumed her efforts. She stretched her arms behind her, until her muscles ached and strained from the awkward position.
“Would you give me another damned minute?” she raged.
He didn’t let up.
Knock—
Addien’s desperation mounted. Her heart hammered from the pressure he put on her with each solidly powerful blow he landed on her door.
Knock—If Dynevor heard…
Knock—If he knew Addien was on the verge of making she and Thornwick late for their first appointment together…
“You walk upon thin ice, madam.”
But a single call to Dynevor and he would know Addien was out of compliance.
Rage and dread turned her belly upside down and inside out.
The noble scoundrel would put her position, her future, her very life at risk. But then that was the way of the nobility. They’d let the hungry starve on an empty belly and walk over their dead bodies on their way to some fancy affair where guests weredripping in diamonds and gold and dining on decadent cakes and scrumptious desserts.
Reminded just how easy it could all be taken away, her efforts were in vain. The ties, which would better be referred to as a leash or lead, remained too far beyond Addien for her to manage anything more than a sad, wide looping bow.
“Tick, tock, madam. Tick, tock.”
Sweating, Addien sprinted to the armoire and fetched her new cloak.
Even as she raced over to the entrance, she drew her cloak on and pulled her hood into place. She yanked the door open with Thornwick mid-knock.
Much to her detriment, Thornwick’s sizable fist was already on its downward path. Gasping, Addien ducked quick, and his inadvertent blow brushed back her wool broadcloth hood. His clenched fingers left a glancing blow at the side of her head.
Addien grunted and stumbled a step.
Thornwick caught her quick. “Jesus,” he hissed; the angry slash of his sharply cut cheekbones went flush with color before promptly going pale. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
He stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair perfectly in place, his chiseled features set in the kind of cold, aristocratic mask meant to make lesser souls bow. If her knees went weak, it was only from rage—not him.
“Have a care in the future, madam,” he said icily. “I nearly ended you with a fist.”
His steeled lips were hard like polished marble, but the taut corners of a mouth given to commands had gone white. He was unsettled at having struck her.
“Aww, don’t flatter yourself, Thornwick.”
In place of the barb she braced for, an errant muscle ticked like a secret at the right corner of his carved lips.
“Let’s go,” he clipped out in his flawless King’s English.
