Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
“Here. Let me.” Leo adjusts his body to block Monty’s view as he eases the jeans down her legs.
A tightness forms around Monty’s mouth, carving deep lines of jealousy and discontent.
I brace to intervene as Leo pulls the blanket to her chin and kisses her lips.
Monty turns away, hands fisted on his hips.
Leo steps back, giving me room to lean in. My forehead rests against hers in a silent connection. I taste her mouth, caress the graceful shape of her face, and reluctantly pull back.
As we leave the room, I take one last look at her, searching for an excuse to stay.
“I’ll be fine.” She waves her hand. “Go. Keep the peace.”
“What peace?”
“Touché.”
Downstairs, Leo heads to the kitchen to make tea. I lean against the wall in the living room and scowl at the couch.
“It’ll be gone tomorrow.” Monty nods at the thing and takes the chair across from it, the exhaustion finally catching up with him.
“She’s tougher than she looks.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
My lip curls. “Don’t touch her again.”
“I’ll give you the same warning.”
“My touch doesn’t trigger her.”
A vein visibly throbs in his neck, right beside the stitches.
Leo returns with a mug of tea and jabs a finger at us. “No fighting.”
That’s rich, coming from him.
I grunt.
Monty closes his eyes.
While Leo delivers the tea to Frankie, we sit in silence, lost in our thoughts. The only sound is the ticking clock on the mantle, marking the passage of time.
After what feels like hours, Leo joins us, sprawling on the hated couch. “How do we help her?”
“She has a psychiatrist.” I take in Monty’s sudden rigidness. “Who is he?”
“Dr. Doyle Whitaker.” Monty rises from the chair, instantly agitated.
“What’s his deal?”
“He has some kind of hold over her.” He paces the room, his erratic movements and tight circles reminding me of Leo.
With all that anger buzzing under the surface, waiting for an outlet, pacing must be a coping mechanism for him, too.
“Look, I get it.” He swipes a hand down his face. “Doyle has all the credentials. Prestigious medical school, over a decade of experience, and a reputation for helping patients through tough times. But he’s too smooth for a doctor, too magnetic with that damn smile. It makes it easy for him to win people over, especially Frankie.”
“Is that how you won her over?”
He pauses, meets my eyes. “Yes.”
I’ll give him this. He doesn’t shy away from hard questions. His honesty makes me want to side with him.
Good thing I don’t.
“There’s something about him.” He strides to the window, staring out at the dusky landscape. “He’s the type of asshole who crosses ethical lines and manipulates his position for his own gain. He helped her through her mom’s death, and because of that, she values him like a friend.”
“Do you have proof of him manipulating her?” Leo asks.
“No. Their interactions are always behind closed doors, as expected, given the privacy laws. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s exploiting her when she’s vulnerable. He’s not in this for her. He’s in it for himself.”
Monty is so twisted up with jealousy and possessiveness that it may be clouding the truth. Not that I judge him for it. Leo and I suffer from the same affliction.
Maybe Frankie’s irresistible pull affects all men. Or maybe it’s a Strakh thing. Are the men in my family inclined to latch onto a woman with their fangs and claws and never let go?
Despite everything, Monty has known her the longest. If he thinks Doyle is a threat, I can’t ignore the warning.
Doing something about it, however, is another problem. I saw the way she reacted to Monty’s accusations about Doyle. I need to find a different approach.
“She wants us to see a psychiatrist.” My stomach hardens at the thought. “Let’s bring Doyle in as the family doctor. Each of us can meet with him and formulate our own opinions. Kill two birds with one stone. We get help while getting to know the man helping her.”
“I hate that fucking idea.” Monty grimaces. “But it’s brilliant. I’ll call him in the morning.”
As Monty paces off down the hall to use the bathroom, I turn to Leo. “How’s she doing?”
“Sound asleep.” His smile carries a tenderness reserved only for her.
“Good. She feels safe then.”
“But is she?” Leo flicks his gaze in the direction that Monty went.
“I go back and forth on that. His guilt and concern feel real, but so did Denver’s at times. What do you think?”
“His face gives my middle finger an erection.”
“That’s mature,” I mutter.
“We need to treat him as a threat until we know with one hundred percent certainty that he’s not.”
“Agreed.”
If Monty isn’t the lethal hunter Denver warned about, who is it? Maybe there isn’t a stalker at all, and the riddle is just another way for the devil to fuck with us. We haven’t seen any indication to support his claim. No ominous shadows or suspicious behavior.