Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I stare at him, blinking rapidly, heart racing. I knew his father was a bastard, and I knew he was abusive—but I had no clue how far it went. Cait only ever hinted at what her father was capable of. Hitting, punching, pushing. But burning? My god, so much suddenly makes sense.
I saw the scars on her. She was good at hiding them and I think she was more ashamed than Kellen is, but I still saw them when we went swimming or if the day was really hot and she walked around in a tank top. Scars like what Kellen has, some circular, some long slashes. I never asked how she got them and she never volunteered—we always just pretended like they didn’t exist.
Now I wish I’d asked. I don’t know what I could’ve done, but maybe things would be different. There were a lot of opportunities for us to turn away from our dark path but we tumbled down it together instead, falling headlong into a hell we both desperately wanted for very different reasons.
“I didn’t know,” I say quietly, looking away and sipping my wine to cover my sudden, intense shame.
He sneers. “Yes, you did, but it was easier to pretend like you didn’t.” He yanks his sleeve back down. “I showed you my scars. Why don’t you show me yours?” He reaches out and snatches my arm roughly. Some of the wine spills over the glass as I try to pull back.
“Get the fuck off me—”
But he turns my wrist and exposes my inner arm. The scars are still there, faint now, nearly gone from an obsessive anti-scar cream regiment and slowly getting fainter every day, but still visible at the crook of my elbow. Those scars bring back so many dark memories, so many horrible nights spent nodding off, so high I couldn’t think, with Cait completely fucked up beside me. So many of my teenage years, wasted to addiction.
I try to yank my arm away, but he doesn’t let me go.
“You’re even more ashamed if it than I am, aren’t you? And you should be. But don’t pretend like they aren’t there. Those scars are who you are.”
“They’re who I used to be.” I stare into his eyes, a mixture of rage and self-loathing billowing up through my core. He doesn’t know a damn thing about me. Cait died and he ran away and I was left here in this piece-of-shit cottage trying to pick up the pieces. Seven years later, I’m still here just as broken and scarred and ruined as I was back then.
“Who we used to be and what we do today make up what we are, princess.” He finally releases me and I yank away from him, nearly knocking over my glass again. I grab it with shaking hands and take a sip to steady myself, but that only makes it worse.
“What, are you a philosopher now? I thought you were too busy selling drugs to girls like me to think about life.”
He shakes his head. “No drugs. That’s my only rule. We don’t deal.”
“Noble. What a great guy.”
“You know I’m not.”
“You’re right, I do know who you are.” I glare at him, heart racing, head dizzy with shame and rage. “Why are you back, Kellen? What do you want with me? All I’ve done is keep to myself and now you’re making my life harder.”
“Just by sharing some wine with you? I didn’t know I had such power.”
“Stop it. What do you want?”
“You,” he says quietly, leaning closer. “I want you, Tara.”
“I’m not for sale.” I shove back from the table and stand up, but he yanks me back down. I let out a gasp as he pins me to the chair, staring at me with a vicious smile the whole time.
“I forgot to mention something,” he says, his grip tightening. “My new trust fund comes with a string attached. It’s an annoying string, but one I think we can untangle together.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I need to get married to access the money.”
I stare at him for three fast beats of my heart before I laugh in his face.
He sits there and takes it. I know what he’s going to say—I can see where this conversation is going from a mile away—and no, absolutely no, there no way in hell I’ll ever, in a million years, willingly get closer to this psychotic asshole.
The idea is so absurd, so sick and twisted, that it makes me want to vomit but instead I just laugh and laugh.
I twist away from him and finally get to my feet. He lets me walk across the room, catching my breath, wiping tears from my eyes.
“It’s not happening,” I say finally once I’m somewhat under control. “If you’re about to say we should get married, it’s just not happening.”