Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
He turned to me, and his eyes were so intent that I wouldn’t be shocked if he could see right through me. The unease forced me to shift away, needing a barrier against the fire igniting in the steel of his eyes.
Alaric stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed his ankles. He smirked. “Oh, the irony.”
I frowned. “Irony?”
“For the first time in my life, I want to be vulnerable, and the person I want to bestow my vulnerability upon wants to shuffle away.”
Alaric’s words were so thick with emotion that they hung above my head like a bomb. My heart accelerated with fear, knowing that once it detonated, it would decimate the world around me, leaving shrapnel in its wake and replacing the life I knew.
With the inch of space between us, I grasped for a reply. I held his brilliant blue gaze, swallowing the jagged lump in my throat. “Excuse me if I’m a little suspicious of a grown man I don’t know.”
Alaric laughed, a boisterous sound that echoed beyond the trees surrounding us. “Fair enough. To be honest, you should be wary of me.” He rose from the bench and dropped his cigarette on the ground, pulverizing it with the toe of his black leather loafers. He bent, picking up the demolished filter before placing it in his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I asked, befuddled by his action.
“Just because I’ve decided to kill myself by smoking doesn’t mean I want to kill the planet in the process.”
“Well, that was unexpected,” I whispered.
Alaric leaned down, his face directly in front of mine. “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”
“I can’t judge anything. I barely know you.” I leaned back, needing the space between us before I became intoxicated with the liquid pools of his eyes and the scent of tobacco, peppermint, and musk.
Alaric smiled, pushing past my boundaries, something I should despise, but I found the invasion welcoming. I visibly shivered. My skin bloomed with goosebumps as his warm breath hit the shell of my ear, and he whispered, “Well, then, I think you should get to know me.”
He didn’t wait for me to respond; he just smiled and walked away.
I wipe the remnants of tears off my face. I’m sick of crying about things I can’t change. This sense of helplessness is a noose that restricts my ability to breathe. I’m frightened that it will eventually snap and pull me under, leaving me hopeless, surrounded by darkness.
My heart jumps at the knock on my bedroom door before it slowly opens. A flash of shame hits me at the hope that it’s Alaric to tell me how sorry he is. Maybe fall on his knees and beg for my forgiveness. But it’s not Alaric. It’s the person I least expect.
Asher.
The bed shifts as he flops onto the mattress, making me bounce. I’m unsure if he’s trying to lighten the mood or make me perversely aware of his sheer size.
Asher is a large man. My friend, Isari, would call him thicker than a snicker. He leans back on my bed and smiles as he takes in the princess motif decor. I realize how girly it is, with the pink comforter, frilly white curtains with lace applique, and the bench covered in stuffed animals.
“Your room is deceitful, you know that? It gives a man the illusion that you’re a little girl living in a fantasy world of fairytales and happily ever after.” Asher turns to me with a snide smirk. “Based on those puffy eyes, the illusion is laced with reality.”
Where Alaric makes me sweat, Asher makes me mad. His gaze is electrifying and dangerous, revealing the twist of a small boy and a deranged serial killer. He’s arrogant, with no filter, and no care that his words are bullets that decimate as they leave his lips. But under the sharp tongue is a soft soul strangled in darkness.
Chapter Four
Asher
Ella’s been crying. I don’t like how that makes me feel, and discomfort twists inside me.
People usually cry without crying—a grotesque squinting of their eyes, jutting their bottom lip, and incessant whining. The most amusing part of the scenario is that the entire time they're playing victim, not one tear falls from their pathetic eyes. Women have mastered that shit. I can’t blame them, I guess. They’ve been allowed to get away with it for years.
But looking at Ella, I know that her red, puffy eyes, the dampness on her pillowcase, and the tears drying on her face are real. Her pain isn’t constructed to win sympathy she doesn’t deserve.
When we first moved here, I thought Ella was the same as any rich girl. My perception of her was based on my lived experience with pretty, snobby blonde girls who made it clear I didn’t belong in their society. Scars left behind as a poor kid too smart for schools in the slums but not good enough to fit in with the upper crust.