Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Benton turned quiet.
I drank.
He drank.
There wasn’t anything left to say.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “But the men will forgive you.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“You made a mistake.”
“But it wasn’t a mistake. Just as Laura made her decision, I made mine. It was intentional. It’s unforgivable.”
“A father was about to kill his daughter,” he said. “They probably felt for her.”
“John and Hector are dead.”
“They knew the risks. They all do.”
I appreciated Benton trying to make me feel better, but nothing would heal this wound. “I’ll have to earn their respect again—assuming they don’t stage a coup and slit my fucking throat while I sleep.”
“They won’t do that, Bartholomew.”
“Really? Because that’s exactly what I would do.”
4
LAURA
A week had come and gone.
The sling finally came off, but it was still hard to move my arm. The muscles were stiff with trauma, but my doctor told me to use it as normally as possible so it would rehabilitate. If it didn’t get better, I’d have to try physical therapy.
I didn’t hear from Bartholomew—and I knew I would never hear from him again.
The heartbreak hurt a lot more than the bullet.
I worked to keep my mind occupied, to stop thinking about my insatiable need for revenge and my all-consuming heartbreak. I pushed through the pain because I had to get better. Had to get my strength back.
Because that was the only way I would be able to kill my father.
I sat alone in my apartment, holding a bag of ice to my arm because it hurt after a long day of moving clothes and delivering suits to residences. My apartment was silent. My laptop screen had gone black because it’d been idle for so long. I hadn’t had dinner yet, but I would probably skip it because my appetite was nonexistent.
All I could think about was one thing.
Bartholomew.
I fucked up so bad.
I knew I couldn’t fix it.
But I missed him…so much.
In my desperation, I texted him. Can you come by?
I didn’t expect a response. He said he would help me if I needed assistance, but stopping by for a late-night chat didn’t fall under that offer. I didn’t want to pretend I needed help either, because that would be a lie, and I respected him too much to do that.
His response was nearly instantaneous. Be there in 10 mins.
My heart did a weird flip and a somersault. I felt lighter than air. But then it came crashing down a moment later, dropping into my stomach and a pool of acid. Now I was nervous, cold and clammy, terrified. This all happened in the span of five seconds.
Exactly ten minutes later, he knocked on the door.
God, I was going to be sick.
I opened the door and came face-to-face with those dark eyes. They were the color of coffee but didn’t have the warmth of a fresh brew. His jawline was covered with a thick shadow that was almost a beard. He gave me the same look as the last time I saw him—of pure nothingness.
I was too speechless to invite him inside, so he let himself in.
He took a look around as if he expected to see the source of my call. As if there was something broken for him to fix or something too heavy for me to move with a single arm. When he saw there was nothing, he looked at me again. “What do you need?” His voice was deep like velvet, strong with confidence, innately powerful.
The sight of him made me weak because he was so damn handsome. I missed the nights when he showed up on my doorstep just to fuck me on the kitchen counter or in the shower. He wasn’t one of those guys that was insistent on leaving the second the fun was over. He slept beside me and kissed my naked body in the morning. “I just wanted to talk.”
His eyes locked on mine, a hint of anger on the surface. “I told you to call me if you needed help.”
“You told me to call if I needed something—and what I need is to talk to you.”
The anger deepened as he stood there. Several seconds of silence passed. “Fine.” He moved to the round kitchen table, sitting in the chair he used to occupy when we had dinner together. He was in his signature leather jacket and boots.
I took a seat across from him, nervous under his piercing stare.
“Let’s get this over with.”
With an attitude like that, I wasn’t going to make any progress. This conversation was pointless. “How’s your arm?”
His hardness decreased, but only slightly. “It’s fine.”
“Did they take out the stitches?”
“They dissolved.”
“So, your arm is back to normal—”
“My arm is fine, Laura.” He looked out the open window. “How’s yours?”
I hated it when he called me Laura. I missed sweetheart. “It’s really stiff. The doctor said I should use it as much as possible to get it back to normal.”