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"Now go to sleep."
"I can’t—"
"Just go the fuck to sleep," Beckett seemed to almost plead with her.
"I can’t just go the fuck to sleep because I’m an insomniac, you idiots," she shouted.
That stopped them in their tracks. Moments later, Aston tossed her e-reader onto the bed.
She murmured a quiet thank you, went through her list of books in her library, and selected some literary genre about a man and his fish and the meaning of toast.
She didn’t think she would ever do anything crazier than this. Read a book calledAbsquatulate In Haste’ in a bed of a house that belonged to three deadly bodyguards, whom she had just inherited from her unknown dead aunt, while said bodyguards had every intention of watching her sleep—jokes on them because she didn’t sleep—while they sat in a chair and drank good whiskey like it was water.
Oh, she had to add that she was doing all that in a hoodie they had put on her inside out.
Chapter Six
Rayne did not sleep. Well, she dosed for a little bit in the morning, but that was it. When she did wake up, she found their seats empty, which was a bit of a relief, she had to admit.
She was still no closer to understanding their hold over her than she was to understanding what her aunt, Marjorie Bradshaw, thought she was doing, putting Rayne in her will and then leaving her three bodyguards for thirty days.
The unknown reason was going to drive her crazy.
She was glad they had done such a thorough job of packing her up in such record-breaking time. All her toiletries and makeup were there, including her hair products, blow dryer, and straightener.
Although, she had to wonder what they were thinking about from the choice of clothes they had packed for her. Basically, all the track pants she owned, long-sleeve oversized T-shirts, long summer dresses, and a few pairs of her more sensible shoes. They clearly had no style. She, on the other hand, had loads of style. It was an eternal pity that she had to live off her credit card to maintain it. The only thing standing between her and a new pair of Jimmy Choos was a credit extension or a loan. She figured she was still young and stupid. There was still ample time for her to wise up and know the difference between adding the price of a pair of designer shoes to her savings or opting to hug said pair of shoes. Suffice it to say, she had zero savings. But she had time to fix that. Later on. Much, much later on.
Standing in a thick, fluffy towel, she picked out a summer dress and then searched for her underwear. Blood red that they had touched her panties, yet again, she was quite confused to discover that they had only packed her emergency granny panties, all in bland colors and durable cotton.
Gasp.
What in the Victoria’s Secret did they have against her flimsy, skimpy, lacy panties?
She sat down on the bed and glanced at the track pants and hoodie that had been manually forced on her, then her gaze skimmed over the nightie she had been wearing underneath.
She picked up the nightie. It was her most comfortable one. It barely covered her ass, had a lace trim, and a bodice fit on the top. While the rest of the garment was made of silk, a thick band of see-through lace wrapped her stomach, and then curved to just reveal the bottoms of her boobs.
She gasped again.
She had been so determined to get to the bottom of the will business that she hadn’t bothered to cover herself up with a gown. And clearly, they couldn’t bear the sight of her nearly naked body, or they wouldn’t have shoved her into thick track pants and a hoodie in the middle of summer.
They couldn’t bear to look at her body. That was it, wasn’t it? Which was totally fine. Different strokes for different folks, and all that……
But she also hated that she felt a little bit like crying. So she wasn’t supermodel material. She wasn’t tall enough, and she ate every day, all day, so she had curves and boobs and stuff. Her eyes were too big and brown. Her lips may be too plump. She had ordinary, dark chocolate-colored hair. She was passable, and she could clean up as well as the next girl. At least she could blend into a crowd without sticking out like a sore thumb or being so utterly beautiful that she was constantly the center of attention. She liked the way she looked, and Beckett, Aston, and Keaton could eat sand for all she cared.
That said, she wasn’t above a little game of revenge. She wondered how they were going to take their 24/7 in-person surveillance of her when she told them where she was going today.
It would serve them right.
She was going to enjoy seeing them balk a bit. Them and their stupid stoic faces.
She didn’t even like that.
Dick lusts? Never, ever, ever.
She was just about to start applying her makeup and had already subconsciously decided to add a layer more here and there, but then she decided against it altogether. Without a stitch of makeup, she fluffed her hair, slipped into a pair of sandals they had packed for her, and went downstairs.
If they couldn’t look at her body, she refused to look at their house, despite being aware that it already looked amazing from her unavoidable glances. She also refused to look at them anymore. No more stealing breathless peeks at them and wondering how they were real and not photoshopped.
