Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
And I wanted to kill her, in the nightmare, for daring to touch him.
All sorts of fucked up, I know.
“Hello?” Alexander speaks again. “Who’s this?”
“Kayden Davenport,” I say as I leave the room where Gareth is sleeping and walk down the hallway.
We brought him to one of my family’s safe houses in Chicago’s suburbs. The doctor stitched up his arm and head and said he’d lost a lot of blood, so he needed a transfusion. He also suffered a severe concussion and needs to be monitored carefully for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
Per the doctor’s recommendations, I’m keeping him in a dark, quiet room with no screens or loud noises. I didn’t let him sleep for the first few hours, shaking him and giving him things to drink, but now, he can rest.
I’ll still need to wake him up and check his responsiveness every few hours. There should be no stress, no physical activity, and just complete rest these couple of days.
The freeze-out behavior is unlikely due to the concussion according to the doctor. He recommended having a clinical psychiatrist take a look at him.
I refused.
Gareth hates those doctors. He’s paranoid about being diagnosed like his brother or having people probe his brain.
And I will not be the reason for his discomfort. Not anymore.
“To what do I owe the call, Mr. Davenport?” Alexander’s voice sounds more professional now.
“You know who I am?”
“Everyone does.” He pauses. “If it’s not urgent, can I call you back? My grandson has gone missing, and I’m flying out to help search for him.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Pardon?”
“Your grandson’s with me.”
A long beat passes before he breathes harshly. “I’m not sure what this is about, but if you want something from me, there’s no need to involve him or I might resort to uncivil methods.”
“There’s no need for threats as I’m not harming him.” Not more than I already did. “He had a concussion and I’m monitoring him until he’s out of danger. Once he’s better, I’ll let him call you.”
“Concussion? How? Where are you? I’m coming right now to take him home.”
“No, you won’t. I’m only informing you because he wouldn’t want his family to worry about him. Goodbye, Mr. Carson.”
“Wait. What’s your relationship to Gareth?”
I hang up.
What’s my relationship to Gareth, really?
A couple of days ago, I thought we were in a relationship like he wanted. He was mine and I was his and that’s that.
I was contemplating telling him the truth and finding a method to leave Vencor so I could be with him.
It’s not really my family that are homophobes—though my dad would kill me if he were alive—it’s the whole goddamn thing.
Gay members aren’t allowed, and if you’re found out to be frolicking with men, you’re killed Middle Ages style.
That’s the end of that.
I don’t give a fuck about myself, but no one is allowed to come near Gareth.
Not anymore.
I’m still racking my brain about the possible options when my phone vibrates.
Declan
You blew up my whole house for that rat? You truly fucked up, Davenport.
I ignore him because he’s a dead man walking. Simone and Jethro are tracking him down and will bring him to me so I can slash his face open.
My shoulders are hunched and my movements are lethargic as I walk back to the room. I need to sleep, even if only for twenty minutes, before I wake Gareth up again.
Simone and Jethro offered to watch him on my behalf, but I can’t possibly leave his side. Besides, he doesn’t know them and might get violent. He’s not himself—far from it—and that makes him dangerous.
So I need to personally make sure he’s okay—
A crash comes from the bedroom and I run, throwing the door open. Arm and head bandaged, Gareth stands in the middle of the room, looking pale in my big white shirt and black shorts. The side lamp’s shards are scattered all around him as he bends over at an unnatural angle.
Then he grabs a piece of glass in his hand and brings it to his uninjured arm.
“Gareth, no!” I snatch his hand, twisting it to the side with little force so as not to open his stitches.
“Let me go.” He speaks so low, sounding far away, then shouts, “Let me the fuck go!”
The glass digs into his fingers, and blood bubbles out of the wound and drips on the carpet. I’ve seen his blood way too much these past couple of days.
I want that to stop.
His pupils are still wide, but not as wide as earlier, and he’s looking at me, those eyes a mixture of rage, disappointment, and hate, but what pierces me open is the sadness.
The pale color of his face and the chapped lips are unnatural and nothing like my Gareth. He looks so depressed, so down, I want to kick myself in the fucking gut.