Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“I know,” I say.
After another short goodbye, Lo leaves. And Maximoff and I turn to each other, water lapping around us, especially with the yacht cruising through the sea.
I sheath his cheek with my hand, his emotion fighting to break through. Fuck, I just want to hold him. Love him. Be there for him when his aristocratic grandmother turns heel.
“What are you thinking?” I breathe.
He pulls my chest closer to his chest in the pool. His buff arms around my shoulders, hands riding up my neck. His forest-greens start to stroke my eyes. Like hot caresses flooded with comfort and warmth. “It feels like every time I try to come up for air, someone else shits on you or me or us, and the only time I can breathe is when I’m looking at you.”
My chest swells, feeling his words before my lips slowly rise. “If that were true, wolf scout, you would’ve died from asphyxiation every time I left the room.”
He groans out his irritation, but then he breaks into deep laughter.
“I made him laugh,” I say matter-of-factly, and fuck, that sound is gorgeous. He looks surprised that the noise left his lips. That unannounced visit at the villa is still raw for me too. And I don’t regret stripping our clothes outside.
I don’t regret one thing we did.
I always take risks. I always live by my actions, not other people’s fucked-up ones. And out of everything, it just fucking rips me apart that the full frontal was of him and not me. So easily, it could’ve been me, and I would’ve done absolutely anything to change that, to protect him, to save him.
And I know I fell short this time.
34
MAXIMOFF HALE
“You what?” I still can’t believe what Farrow just said.
We’re on one of the sleek couches that surround the glowing pool. Stars shine in the pitch black night, lanterns on the main deck illuminating the yacht. My siblings and cousins are spread out: some reading on chairs, others soaking in the hot tub. Upstairs in the sky lounge, all of our parents are having a “meeting” to discuss Grandmother Calloway’s abrupt departure.
Out of all my siblings and cousins, I have the least contact with our grandmother. That’s my mom’s doing. I understand why, and I love her for protecting me. But I wish I could protect her from hurt. From that pain.
My dad would tell me that it’s not my job. Still, I want the superpower to erase everything my grandmother said. Banish the words from fucking existence.
Maybe that should’ve been my birthday wish. Guess I still have time since it’s not midnight.
July 13th isn’t over yet.
Despite some bad parts, there is so much good here. And I hang onto every damn piece. Especially the small moments in between.
Like now.
Farrow is slouched against me on the couch, most of his weight anchored off my chest. He’s mindful of my injury but not to the point where it’d frustrate me. His amusement fucking mushrooms. Like he just beat me at some sort of listening competition.
“I heard you,” I refute while I try to raise my right arm vertically. In a stretch. But I still can’t reach all the way up without intense stress on the muscle. “I just need you to say it again so it can sink in.”
He slowly chews mint gum. “I wrote him a letter, wolf scout. You know: paper, pen. The Cobalt way.”
“I got that,” I say. “But why?”
The second we sank down onto the couch together, Farrow admitted that he gave Beckett a letter, but I have no fucking idea the reasons or the contents.
Farrow sits up straighter. Turning more towards me, his inked hand slides along my thigh.
Christ, I like that.
He smiles knowingly. “Because Beckett is the family member who keeps questioning my intentions with you, and normally I’d just say fuck him and move on. But our relationship should bring you closer to your family, not farther away. So I gently explained some things in a manner I thought a Cobalt would appreciate.”
Wow.
He did that.
I breathe in, my chest expanding with something powerful. “Thank you,” I say seriously, lifting my arm at a forty-five degree angle. I glance at his mouth.
His know-it-all smile has returned. “You want me to kiss you?”
“Or maybe I just want to fuck you,” I combat.
He shifts, his gaze falling down me. “If you want to fuck me, you can fuck me later.”
My blood heats. Goddamn. I can never tell if I love or hate flirting. The impatient parts of my brain loathe it, but the rest of me would gladly do this for millenniums with him.
“I said maybe,” I retort.
“I said if,” he says. “Man, your listening skills are worsening.”
I give him a middle finger while my arm ascends to a sixty-degree angle. “Where’s your copy of this fucking letter?”