Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I touch a hand to my stomach when it clenches. My head starts to spin again, worse this time, and all of a sudden, I feel very, very sick. The hurt in Christian’s eyes turns to concern, and he reaches for me again, but this time I push him away before stumbling for the bathroom. He's behind me, trying to encourage me. I'm going to be okay, but what does he know? He's not the one with a hand clamped over his mouth to catch what’s about to burst forth.
I almost don't make it to the toilet, vomit splashing upward from the force with which my body ejects it. Again and again, I heave my head halfway into the bowl.
His hand is on my back when the worst of it passes, rubbing in slow circles. “It's okay. You'll be fine. Take deep breaths.” All I manage to do is shake my head before another round of heaving comes over me. I guess it was bound to happen after all this stress. The wedding alone was enough to make me feel sick, and so much has happened even in the past few hours.
The second round passes. I lift my head, hoping to catch my breath, and Christian meets me with a damp cloth. “There, there.” He mops my brow, and I can't deny how good the cool cloth feels against my flushed skin. “You've been through so much. It's understandable, getting sick. But it will pass.” He's almost unbearably tender like he's taking care of a child.
I open my mouth to thank him, but unfortunately, all that comes out is more vomit. This time, some of it gets on him before I hover over the bowl again. When is it going to end?
Minutes pass while I hug the bowl, breathing as slowly and evenly as possible. He's right. This will pass. And it seems to be—my stomach doesn't feel as tight anymore like it's trying to expel its contents. I'm sure I've thrown everything up by now, anyway. My ribs and back hurt from the force, and my throat feels like I took sandpaper to it.
Christian gets up, rinses out the cloth, then returns to wipe my face. I don't have the strength to do it myself or to tell him to stop. And it does feel nice, almost as nice as being cared for. He takes the task very seriously, his brow furrowed in concentration as he cleans every last bit of mess off my face.
He notices me watching him, and the ghost of a smile plays over his lips. “You're beautiful, you know. You're so beautiful.”
“You can't mean that right now.”
He only laughs indulgently while helping me to my feet. I'm understandably unsteady, swaying a little. But there's no more nausea.
“I do.” He turns me around, and without a word, he begins unbuttoning my dress. “You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
“My face is a mess, my makeup is ruined, and there's probably still dried blood in my hair.” I haven't checked out my reflection. I didn't even want to look at myself while we were in the car for fear of what I'd see. “I'm pretty sure I puked on you a little, too.”
“A little.” He says it with all the care of somebody commenting on the weather. “I won't hold it against you.”
Once I'm undressed, the ruined gown pooling at my feet. I step out of the circle of fabric. Christian turns on the shower, then extends a hand to me. I'm still a little woozy, so I accept the help without complaint. The warm water is comforting, and the idea of being able to wash this terrible night off me makes it feel even better.
I'm leaning against the wall, enjoying the feeling of water against my skin when to my surprise Christian kicks off his shoes and joins me while still in his suit. “What are you doing?”
“Washing you up. I'm not sure I trust you alone in the shower, the way you're swaying back and forth.”
“Am I?
“You are. But that's what I'm here for. Remember? I'm your husband.” He gently but firmly positions me under the showerhead. At first, the feeling of water against my head makes me wince, but soon the discomfort eases. Once my hair is soaked, he shampoos it, taking care with the bump his brother gave me.
“Can I ask you something?” With my eyes closed like they are, I find it easier to voice the question weighing heavy on my heart.
“Go right ahead.”
“How can you be so calm now? Your brother killed your father right in front of you, and you shot him for what he did to me. And not even tonight, either. I've watched you kill other people. You hardly reacted at all. Almost like it never happened, even though I watched it. How can you do that?”