Page 17 of Entangled
“Someone pays you to dance?”How much, and where do I sign up to watch?“You’re like a cam girl?”
“Yes.” She squares her shoulders and looks me dead in the eyes. “But I don’t do it for the money.”
“Then, why?” I wonder if her billionaire father is aware of herunnecessary income stream. I’m sure the finance mogul wouldloveknowing his daughter takes off her clothes for money. That’s likely why she wore a mask, but now that I know she doesn’t have a boyfriend, I’m even more curious who was on the receiving end of yesterday’s performance. “If you don’t need the money, why do it?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Henry.”
“I’m sorry. Don’t feel obligated to answer.”Please fucking tell me more.
After a few moments of hesitation, she says, “I dance because it’s my passion. When my grief makes it hard to breathe, dancing is the air I crave. When I feel forgotten and so lonely I can barely function, my clients remind me I’m not alone. When I feel worthless, their praises prove that’s not the case. Dancing connects me to the outside world.” She makes a sweeping gesture with her arm. “Being here, sequestered in my tower, is a self-inflicted punishment.”
“Punishment for what?” What could’ve possibly happened to make her feel like she needed to shut herself away from the world?
“Doesn’t matter. Bottom line, I miss human interaction. Attention. Conversations.”
An invisible band tightens around my chest. “Don’t you have friends?”
“Not anymore. My hermit lifestyle didn’t appeal to them—because they don’t understand me—so they kept their distance. At this point, we’ve drifted so far apart, I don’t have the energy to bother swimming.”
“Jesus.” I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever related to a statement more. My friends distanced themselves when I came home from overseas. I don’t blame them, but still. It’s a shitty feeling, knowing you’re disposable.”
“I get it.” She peers across the table into my eyes. “For what it’s worth, I think your friends were wrong.”
“Yours too.” My voice comes out more gravelly than I’ve ever heard it, and I’m not sure what’s going on in my chest, but I do know one thing: Rowan-Anastasia Punzel is so much more than a quirky heiress who lives alone in a tower. She’s broken and beautiful, a gorgeous mystery I’m desperate to solve. Yet it seems the more I learn about her, the less I know.
“I really appreciate you having dinner with me,” she says, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear. “Even though I kinda manipulated you into it.”
I chuckle and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “I’m glad you did. Thank you for feeding me.”I want you.“I’m sorry I was a dick earlier.”
“Apology accepted.” She smiles and my pulse stutters for a few beats. “You’re way less of an asshole than I originally thought.”
I bark out a laugh. “Uh, thanks?”
“Thankyoufor dropping the jerk schtick. I was getting ready to slap you.”
I’d let her do anything she wanted to me. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I would’ve deserved it.”
“Not true, but we’ll have to agree to disagree.” Mischief flashes in her gaze. “Although it was kinda fun to push your buttons.” There is no mistaking the desire written on her features when she adds, “I may need to try it again.”
Oh, sweet fuck.My cock twitches, reminding me I’m screwed. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a woman so badly.
“Rowan, I—” A sharp pain radiates from my Achilles tendon up the back of my calf. I jerk my leg upward. My knee slams the table, knocking over our drinks. I yelp as I scramble backward and fall off my chair.
The second my ass hits the floor, a satanic growl unlike anything I’ve ever heard fills the kitchen.
“What the—”
A creature rockets from beneath the table in a blur of teeth and claws. Needles prick my skin.
“Fuck!” Pain travels toward my head. Twisting to my side, I shield my face. The snarling animal continues its assault, hellbent on destroying me.
“Eugene! Stop!” Rowan’s shrieks pierce my skull.
Her screams do nothing to halt the attack. I jerk onto my stomach, then cover my head. My arms and shoulders fall victim to the scratching and biting, but protecting my face is my only goal.
Then, as suddenly as it started, everything stops. Nails scrape across the kitchen floor with the beast’s retreat.
Now I’m soaking wet and covered in ice cubes.
