Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Sighing, I open the door opposite from his bed.
Ah, his closet.
Meaning a long row of tweed jackets. All gray or black or brown in color, and all of them with elbow patches made of leather. I’ve always thought about messing with his jackets but I’ve never been able to bring myself to do it. As old-fashioned as they are, they suit him. They fit him so well, like his body was made for them.
Actually, no.
They were made for his body.
Like someone invented them back in the day with him on their mind.
I reach out a hand so I can touch them.
But suddenly I find that I can’t.
Suddenly I find that I’m restricted.
Because someone is touching me.
Actually not just touching me. Someone is grabbing me.
My wrist.
Someone has their fingers wrapped around it. And everything happened so abruptly, so unexpectedly and jarringly, Jesus fucking Christ, that I drop my flashlight, which falls to the floor with a clatter, and my mouth opens.
But the only sound that comes out of it is a gasp.
A broken, hiccup-y gasp.
Instead of a loud scream.
But before I can gather enough steam to make a second attempt, I hear a growl. “Let go.”
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
What… How… That growl.
It’s him.
He’s here.
He’s behind me.
In the dark. With my stupid fucking flashlight on the floor casting eerie shadows on the closet wall.
But more than that, more than that, he’s touching me.
He’s touching me, the hand that’s holding the knife, and I can’t breathe.
I absolutely cannot breathe right now.
And then that hand of his tightens around mine, his fingers digging into my wrist. When his rough thumb mashes into my pulse, my whole body jolts and my fingers holding the knife loosen, and he swipes it.
He takes it away from me and along with my knife, he’s gone too.
He steps away, and my breath comes rushing and slamming back into my body. And then I’m breathing like a hurtling train, all noisy and fast. My chest is heaving and I grab hold of my wrist — the one he’d grabbed — with shaking fingers.
A moment later, the space floods with light and I spin around.
It takes my eyes a second to adjust and then there he is.
The man who came out of nowhere. Who shocked my breaths out of me just now.
My devil guardian.
He stands at the threshold of his bedroom, looming like a threat, dwarfing everything around him with that knife in his hand.
And he’s not just holding it, he’s toying with it.
His thumb — that dug into the pulse of my wrist — is flicking the shiny edge of the knife softly.
“What the…” I still can’t catch my breath. “How did you… What are you doing here?”
His face is a study of harsh lines as he stares at me. And through my shock, I realize that I can see them.
His eyes.
For the first time in days, I can see his dark, chocolate brown eyes.
Crazily, I think that they remind me of chocolate chip cookies. Especially the ones that Mo makes, with shiny, melted chocolate chips. My favorite thing ever.
Not that anything about his eyes can be called melted, but still.
They’re hard just like his face.
Just like his jaw, which moves when he replies, “I live here.”
“I —”
“Which I guess you know,” he goes on, a muscle jumping on his cheek. “Don’t you?”
“But you were…” I swallow. “You were supposed to be out and —”
“Is that what you were counting on?” His thumb digs into the sharp end and I tighten my own body, afraid that he might cut himself. “Me being out.”
Yes.
I was.
That was my whole plan. I was going to do what he just did to me.
I was going to lie in wait until he came back and then ambush him. Or rather, confront him and force him to talk to me.
But for the second time this week, he ruined my plan.
“How did you even… come up behind me like that?” I ask, slowly getting my wits back together. “You scared me.”
His chocolate chip eyes glitter at my words. “I think I should be the one scared.” He presses his thumb on the knife again. “Don’t you think? Given that I found this knife in your hand when we both know about your history.”
I flinch.
It’s slight but it’s there and I hate it.
I hate that he’s bringing it up to taunt me for all the things I’ve done to him.
Yes, I haven’t been an angel to him. In fact, I’ve been a downright menace. I’ve done everything that I can to make his life hell, like I promised him four years ago.
But it’s not as if he didn’t deserve it.
It’s not like he was an angel to me.
Even now, the fact that I broke into his cottage and I was looking to mess with his things is only because he wouldn’t give me the time of day.