Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
But she didn’t last long once flames filled the enormous hearth. Stone found himself oddly proud of her resourcefulness, so he decided to give her a moment to bask in her small victory.
She lay down on the cold stone, visibly shivering as she curled onto her side, but she’d never get warm as long as she stayed in those wet clothes.
“Come on, little rabbit, you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”
Her body stilled for a long moment, and he leaned forward in concern. Then she snapped out of her trance and forced herself up.
Looking back longingly at the raging fire, she staggered out of the great room into the hall. Her instability might be more than just the effects of the cold. A dry trickle of blood curled down the side of her face, but her hair covered the source of the injury. Perhaps she was concussed.
As she hobbled through the house, she moved with a rheumatoid gait, likely from the stiffness in her bones, but she also held her left shoulder as if it ached. She followed the corridors, scurrying like a mouse locked in the shadows as she tested door after door, seeking something specific, and moving on when she didn’t find it.
When she reached Hunter’s room, she rushed inside. She was damn lucky he wasn’t there, or her little exploration would have ended abruptly.
Stone switched monitors and brought up the image as she ripped open the wardrobe and pilfered the armoire shelves. Arms full, she carried the stack of stolen clothes to the bed and stripped away her soaked clothes.
He should have been prepared, but there was no warning for what he would see. Long, delicate limbs leading to a pert little ass so ripe he wanted to sink his teeth into it. The feminine flare of her hips spoke of hardiness, but there was something utterly fragile about her tapered waist. He bet he could hold her captive in the span of his bare hands.
Her breasts, pale and full, hung like inviting fruit, fresh for the picking. Stone’s mouth watered, and he swallowed just before her beautiful body was engulfed in wool. The sweater draped her like an ill-fitting dress. She pulled thick hunting socks up past her knees, further emphasizing her petite size.
She was… voskhititelny. “Exquisite,” he whispered, letting his thick Russian accent savor the taste of the word as if he were tasting her. “Sit on the bed, little one. Show me more.”
Unfortunately, that was the end of the show as she shrouded herself in an old fur coat he hadn’t seen in years. It engulfed her from shoulder to shin.
Enchanted, he watched her bring the fur to her cheek so she could nestle in its softness. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the silk lining, and his jaw locked. His fingers curled against the desk, his nails scraping into the polished surface.
She looked around the room and, for a moment, her desperation disappeared. The start of a smile danced across her lips, then she doubled over in pain.
His brow knit with concern, but he saw nothing with her buried in fur and wool. Perhaps an injury he’d missed.
Brushing her hair out of her face, her skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. He glimpsed a deep gash on her temple and cursed himself for not searching her body more closely for bruises or identifying tattoos when he had the chance. He could rewind the feed, but she was on the move again.
“Where are you going now, quick little rabbit?”
Her strides were slightly steadier as she retraced her earlier steps with purpose. She was learning the layout of their home, which both bothered and impressed him. She saw rooms not open to the public, and he wondered why he hadn’t yet notified his brothers that they had a trespasser.
The kitchen cameras revealed her desperation in stark detail, and he zoomed in once again. She devoured food like she hadn’t eaten in days, tearing into artisanal bread and aged cheeses with the hunger of someone who’d forgotten that sustenance was a luxury, not a guarantee. This wasn’t the practiced nibbling of a woman worried about her figure. This was survival eating, raw and honest and beautiful in its desperation.
She was running. The question was from what? Or whom?
Stone’s fingers moved across the console like a pianist interpreting Rachmaninoff, switching between cameras to follow her exploration of their domain. She moved through the common areas with wide-eyed wonder that suggested familiarity with wealth but not with wealth like this.
The style of her earlier clothing, though torn and soaked, whispered of money, old money, inherited money, but her behavior spoke of someone unaccustomed to the kind of power that built private kingdoms.
This was no princess. This was a refugee.
Once her appetite was satisfied, she neatly wrapped the food and returned it to the cupboard.