Married To The Fake Crippled Billionaire

ick with the smell of expensive whiskey ming

y hall office, no indifferent justice of

vet sofas, a massive marble fireplace, the bed she was on dominating the far wall. This was a receiving

by the Beaumonts? A final act of humiliation before casting her aside? A knot of p

oors on the far side o

ked the faint light from the hallway. The man was tall, broa

sed. She scrambled backwards on the enormous bed, the fine sheets tan

the doors swinging shut behind

. It was a low, gravelly sound, thick with menac

was so powerful it seemed to vibra

on her, pinning her to the mattress. The scent of whiskey was overpowering, m

d, thrashing against him, her hands pushing

was a dead weight of muscle and fur

a low snarl in her ear. He grabbed her wrists, his grip like iron, a

guttural accusation. "You thin

e violent tremor of rage running through him. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his gr

. And then she heard it again, that voice. Low, resonant, unforgettable. She'd heard it o

ice of

sped, the name torn from her

radiating from his skin, the slight unsteadiness, the slurred edge to his words, the aggression.

. "So you know my name. Did Bella Beaumont te

voice sharp. "I'm not Bella. I'm Amara. Amara

ionally. In the darkness, she could feel his gaze on her, sharp and

and labored, a ragged

rutal. He completely ignored her plea of innocence. He didn't care who

him, and he lowered his head, his lips grazing the sensiti

rror. Her hands, still pinned, strain

oice surprisingly steady. "If it continues to

is head lif

low and urgent. "Let me go, and

ion in his grip lessened, ju

side project, she had once researched ancient healing techniques, t

brought her fingers together, stiff and precise, and drove them into the sensi

itate a man, or, if applied with the

e body convulsed, a massive jolt of pure shoc

to slow, evening out into something almost norma

. It was replaced by a look of stunned disbelief, then a s

ock to move, slithering out from under him like

tic rhythm against her ribs. She reached the nightstand an

icked

ed the room, chasing the

he monster of rumor. He was brutally handsome, with sharp, arist

s jaw, was the scar. A puckered, discolored line of tiss

The texture was wrong. And under the direct light of the lamp, she coul

A Hollywood-l

tially unbuttoned white shirt. His legs were not twisted

He wasn't disfigure

her. She had stumbled into a cage with a pr

from the floor, the stiletto a pathet

his eyes. "You think you can just walk out of here?" he

ss doorknob, her fingers slick with sweat. She wr

dark, and sil

or. There was no one. No staff, no security. Just an

d now. And he was i