Total pages in book: 178
Estimated words: 163885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 656(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 656(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
“Do I need to take you to a hospital?”
She shook her head. “Just sick. A migraine. Very bad. My ankle.” She had to reply through clenched teeth. If she opened her mouth, she’d get sick all over him. “Home, please.”
“Keys?”
She nodded toward her pocket. He didn’t hesitate but reached into her jacket and tugged them out. She heard the second motorcycle arrive and put her head down, embarrassed that anyone else would see her curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth on an elderly woman’s front porch.
“Just Ink and Mechanic bringing my bike to your house for me,” Savage said. “I’m driving your car.”
That made sense, but her head was pounding so hard she couldn’t think clearly. Nor could she see properly. She was grateful he’d come for her. Savage. She’d fallen so hard, so fast. She knew it was too soon and far, far too much. She was giving him all of her because she was the type of woman who, once she made up her mind, couldn’t hold anything back. She gave every part of herself to him. She was all in. All his. Heart and soul.
Savage gathered her up, lifting her into his arms, cradling her close to his chest as if she was the most precious cargo in the world. For one second, she was dizzy with love. With the most amazing, wonderful feeling, almost a euphoria, in spite of her lurching stomach and pounding head.
And then it hit her. The woman. The smell of her. The scent of the woman’s sexual lust mixed with Savage’s raw, violent, sexual scent. His mingling with the woman’s. The color red slashed across her vision.
Betrayal was a red-hot poker, as crimson and as bright as those streaks in her vision, only this was a knife stabbing over and over through her heart. The reality of betrayal was brutal and visceral, shredding her, ripping her to pieces, just as she’d known it would. It hurt worse than if he’d beaten her. That terrible stabbing continued over and over, driving through her body until she felt every single hole, until there was nothing left of her flesh on the bones. It hurt worse than the very real physical pain of that vicious jackhammer drilling at her head in the form of a migraine.
Seychelle struggled. Fought him. Tried desperately to get out of his arms. She had to get away from him. His touch was killing her, stripping her down to nothing but raw, visceral pain.
“Stop it, Seychelle. Be still. I have to get you to the car.” He spat the command through clenched teeth.
They shared the vision of the woman on her knees, her naked body striped with his mark, his brand, her mouth eagerly devouring his cock. He was there with her, just as upset as she was. Just as horrified. As disgusted. As fiercely rejecting the truth that was in that highly detailed vision between them because he’d come straight from the woman to Seychelle. He hadn’t even taken the time to do more than empty himself down her throat, pull away, jerk up his jeans and run for his motorcycle.
“Damn it. Stop it.”
She’d landed a punch to his jaw. It wasn’t hard, because she couldn’t find the necessary strength when she was so sick, but at least he had the door to the car open, and he all but dumped her on the front seat. She curled up in the fetal position and rocked herself, closing her eyes, trying not to think. Trying to force herself to just count. She needed to get home. Find peace.
“Baby, listen to me. I know you’re hurt. I know this fucking hurt you.”
The car was in motion and he was talking. That voice. The one that could wrap her in velvet and smooth over every abrasion and cut on her skin. Those scars she wore for him. Nothing could soothe this away. Nothing. She had no skin left; he’d torn it all off her.
“It would have hurt a lot more if this had been done to you.”
She wanted to cover her ears. She felt the victory in the woman. The greed. The hot need for sex. She was practically begging him. The worst of it all was, Seychelle knew Savage could have cared less about the woman. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t want to know her name. She was absolutely nothing to him. He’d found a woman more physically attractive, had sex with her and didn’t even know her name or care one thing about her. He’d given her that side of himself, depraved, sick and violent—it was still Savage, her Savage, and he’d given that man to someone else. Not her.
She detested that she felt so betrayed. She detested that she was so weak, that she loved him so much she was that hurt. She wanted him gone. She kept counting over and over in her head to drown out the sound of his voice, refusing to hear what he said. She could smell him, smell the woman, the mixture of sex and the coppery taint of blood. Thankfully, he wasn’t touching her, so she didn’t have to feel his emotions or the woman’s. She just had to feel sick and shiver with the pain of Doris’s vicious migraine and twisted ankle and the knowledge of Savage’s betrayal until her body would finally reject everything.