Page 215 of Poison Aches

His nostrils flare, his eyes narrow, and a very cold and desolate aura falls over him.

A shiver goes through me as I watch him.

I have never seen him look like this at all!

He almost doesn’t look like he’s human…but like he’s something else entirely.

He looks away from me and then turns to look at the idiot that is now backing away as if he wants to run.

Emmett doesn’t even move in his seat, but he says two words that literally chill the room.

“Hello, Jackass.”

My eyes flutter open when I feel the sun on my skin.

I’m immediately hit by the heaviness of my body right before my head starts pounding like a whole-ass construction crew is at work behind my temples.

A groan escapes my lips before I can think of shifting my body onto my back.

My mouth is dry like a damn desert and in my head… everything is blank.

What happened?

My eyes widen when I finally notice that this ceiling… this high, expensive-looking ceiling with a pretty big and beautiful crystal chandelier in the middle, IS NOT FROM MY ROOM!

I jerk awake so fast, the pounding in my head awakens the pounding of my heart.

Black, silk sheets pool around me and I realize I’m wearing a huge but comfortable t-shirt. But just like the foreign surroundings, this t-shirt, too, is not mine.

Jesus, what happened?

Where am I?

I quickly press a hand between my legs.

It’s crazy that for girls and women, this is probably the first thing we check, to see if there’s any stickiness or soreness or bruises, hell, anything that can indicate a violation, and to my horror, I find that yes, I’m wearing unfamiliar black boxer briefs and there’s a wetness there.

I gasp as fear slams into me.

Something happened to me.

“Good, you’re not dead.”

A low, deep voice speaks to my left.

I whip my head around so fast, only to freeze in my tracks.

I can physically feel the breath in my lungs being trapped as I take in the visual in front of me.

Emmett is sitting in front of an easel that holds a wide canvas.

In his left hand, he holds a paintbrush so effortlessly, as if it might fall off, but I know the man is a master.

It’s just that, I’ve never seen him paint, let alone him doing it while shirtless, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of what I’m assuming is his high-rise penthouse.

“You!” I croak. “What did you do to me?”

The accusation flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, but Emmett doesn’t even spare me a glance.

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