Page 6 of Thorns of Deceit
I did as he said, our eyes clashing while my mind furiously searched for ways out of this situation and coming up with none.
“Sit down.”
“How did you find me?” I whispered, refusing to appear ruffled even as my breathing became labored. I’d given the club a fake name and address.
“That’s irrelevant.” His murmur sent a wave of anxiety through me. “I hate repeating myself, Raven. Sit down.”
I closed my eyes before walking slowly to the empty chair opposite of him. When I finally got to it, my legs shook so much that I practically slumped down.
“I—”
“Don't speak.”
“Excuse me,” I spluttered. “You’re in my house.”
His big frame straightened up, filling the rickety chair. It was only now that I noticed he no longer wore jeans. Instead, he was sporting a William Westmancott suit.Jesus. I was spotting designer labels now? Remind me to thank fashion-obsessed Reina for this useless new talent.
“Don’t piss me off,” he warned. “I’m too fucking angry for that. You’ll sit and listen to what I’m about to tell you.”
“Fine.”
I clenched my fists and leaned back into my chair, holding his stare as I waited for him to explain whatever the hell he was here for.
“You got some fire in you.” A small, cruel smile pulled at his lips as he tucked his gun into the holster under his lapel. “You’re going to need it.”
“Why would I need fire if you’re just going to kill me?”
His breath came out on a long, steady exhale before silence settled inside the apartment, stretching like a rubber band about to snap.
“Are we gonna do it or are we just gonna sit here?” I blurted, the anticipation setting me on edge.
He watched me with knitted brows, his hands tightening and relaxing at irregular intervals.
“Since you witnessed something you weren’t supposed to,” he started, his voice even, “you have two options.” He crossed an ankle over one knee, seeming far too relaxed for the set of his jaw and the sharpness in his eyes. “I can kill you, or I can marry you.”
I blinked, the adrenaline roaring loud in my ears.
“You…What?” My voice betrayed me, trembling like the rest of my body. “Those are not options,” I rasped, fighting a hysterical laugh bubbling in my throat. “That’s like choosing between a death sentence or life in prison.”
His expression remained blank while he watched me with a coiled restraint.
“Marriage to me would hardly be a prison,” he said flatly. “As future mother to my heir and my wife, you’d be protected forever.”
“From you and your family too?”
His jaw ticced.
“Look, you walked into a pile of shit,” he said. “The moment you did, your life stopped being yours. So you have two choices. Make one.”
“I’m only nineteen,” I rasped, my mouth suddenly dry.
He let out a sardonic breath. “Exactly. Over the legal age to be married.”
I failed to see anything positive in that statement.
“I’m not ready for marriage,” I spluttered. “Besides, how old are you? Forty? Fifty? You’re practically an old man!”
The dude, although good looking, was fucking ancient. Wasn’t there a law against this?
