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)
“To see you.”
He releases the arrow, but it lands slightly off-center. A frustrated breath tears out of him, and he lets the bow fall to his side as he faces me. “What if I don’t want to see you?”
“I’d need a proper reason for that. You’ve got to communicate, even when you’re mad. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know what’s wrong?”
“Forget it.” He pulls another arrow, rolling the tip between his fingers.
“Not if you’re still mad about it.”
He tilts his head, frowning a bit. “Why does that matter to you? Whether I’m mad or not.”
“Why wouldn’t it? I want to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can, but I want to be there anyway. Like right now.” I grab his arm, the chill of his skin jolting against my hand. “You’re not taking care of yourself by standing in the rain shooting arrows. Your body is mine, so you don’t get to be reckless with it. Are we clear?”
He swallows hard, his turbulent eyes wavering and flickering. They’re so lost and disturbed it makes me want to kill whoever put that look there—even if it’s me.
His lips are bluish, and I notice a small cut at the edge of his archery glove. I gently remove it, inspecting the wound. It’s shallow, but the sight of it irritates me anyway.
“How did this happen?”
He shrugs, silent, as if his mind is miles away.
The fact that he isn’t throwing out a snarky comment is more worrying than the wound.
After wrapping a tissue around his hand, I tug him toward the locker room. “We’re going home.”
He’s got spare sets of sweatpants and shirts in his locker, and I grab the loosest fit for myself. As we change, I keep stealing glances at him.
He’s acting…odd.
It’s concerning.
Now, why I am concerned about a literal psycho is anyone’s guess.
“Stop that,” he mutters, his voice quieter than usual.
“Stop what?”
“Ogling me like a massive pervert.”
“Why can’t I look at what’s mine?”
He turns away, but not before I catch the flush creeping up his neck.
At least, one thing hasn’t changed.
He acts like a goddamn menace, but he blushes around me. It’s endearing and adorable as fuck.
Once we’re dressed, I make sure he stays under the umbrella as we walk to his car.
“Give me your keys. I’ll drive if you’re tired.”
“No way. Do you even know how to drive this?”
“It’s a car, not a spaceship.”
He strokes the top of the car reverently. “It’s a special car. My twentieth birthday gift from Grandpa. The only one of its kind with its matte black-green exterior and 1,200 horsepower on a quad-turbo W16 engine that pushes 1,500 Nm of torque. Don’t get me started on the aerodynamic design that cuts through the air or the carbon body filter. You’re so special, aren’t you, Medusa?”
“You named your car Medusa?”
“Sure did. She’s badass.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t listen to him, baby girl,” he murmurs, stroking the car like a lover.
Am I jealous of a goddamn car because he speaks to it so softly and calls it baby girl?
Yes. Yes, I fucking am.
Something scurries from under the car and both of us remain still as a rat climbs up Gareth’s leg.
Wait. Not a rat.
A small drenched black cat meows its head off, its tiny claws grabbing on to Gareth’s pants for dear life.
“Get it off me.” Gareth tries to wiggle his leg, but the cat holds on tighter.
“So it’s not just dogs. You’re also afraid of cats?” I ask, amused.
“No, I just don’t know how to deal with animals. They’re unpredictable little fuckers like kids.”
“It’s probably just hungry.” I hand him the umbrella and crouch down.
The cat lets out a pitiful meow, its tiny claws gripping Gareth’s pants.
“Hey, little one. You’re freaking out this big, tall muscular guy who loves stabbing things. Mind getting off?”
“I’m not freaking out. Just hurry up.”
I chuckle and grab the cat, and it hisses, then meows in one long high-pitched sound. “Hard life this young?”
When I stand up again, holding the cat in the palm of my hand, Gareth pulls away a little, eyeing it as if it’s a bomb. “Just put it down or something.”
“It’ll die in this rain.”
“Then let’s drop it off at a shelter.”
“They’re closed this late. We’ll take it home and figure something out tomorrow.”
He says nothing and slides into his precious car that I kind of dislike now. What? He treats it better than me.
The cat, a girl, is shivering in my lap as I slide into the passenger seat.
She burrows into the scarf I’ve wrapped around her as we drive to a nearby pet store. Gareth parks, grumbling under his breath while I head inside to grab the essentials. The shopkeeper gives me a crash course in kitten care and recommends a visit to a 24-hour vet just to be safe.
My moms have two dogs and I’ve never had a cat, or a pet, for that matter—Dad would’ve never allowed such nonsense, so this is new territory for me.