Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Gasping, I shot out of bed, sheets soaked in sweat. Panic gripped me.
It’s okay. I’m in the Rogue House. I’m safe, it’s okay.
Over and over I repeated it until the remains of the dream leaked out, leaving the exhausted empty shell behind.
The house is quiet. At least I didn’t wake anybody.
Dragging myself out of bed, I tiptoed to Cato’s reading room, chose a book at random, and settled into my bland armchair, in my bland room to read. In between I thought of little things I’d do to brighten up the place—pictures of me and Winter, a new bedspread, some of that wallpaper Lucien put up. It’d make a decent accent wall.
The clock ticked down, bringing the sun up. Around six thirty, I called it and headed for the shower with my sheets. I hung them up, covering the gaping entrance and cursing Wilder O’Rourke the whole time.
The bathroom was bigger, and cleaner, than I expected. Double sinks, double vanities, and black memory foam bathmats warming my toes. I took my time under the heated spray, letting it wash the remains of the nightmare down the drain.
Climbing out, I wrapped up tight in my robe and padded across the hall, where I hung another sheet and carried my change of clothes into the closet. Wilder’s plan to stop me plotting wasn’t working. I thought up half a dozen ways to kill him while hopping into my underwear, banging my head on the hanger rod.
That morning, I chose a skater dress and black tights—close to what I wore that birthday Winter sang to me. Out of the closet, I finished my routine, dabbing on a touch of makeup and spangly earrings.
None of the guys were up, so this was my chance to whip up breakfast, thanking them for letting me move in and beating the shit out of the boys that made it necessary. The plan was on hold for Levi and Owen at the moment—until they got out of the hospital.
Grabbing my phone, I headed out.
“Ahh!” Jumping back, I banged into the doorframe. “Joseph Collins, what the hell are you doing?!”
Cato crouched on the floor, concealed by the wall where scaring the shit out of me is made simple.
“Don’t bother staring at me with those moon eyes, refusing to speak. I know you’ve got no problem talking and I’ve checked out your reading collection. Spill.”
Cato raised his head, and said, “Everyone expects you up there.” He pointed, making me look up automatically. “But no one expects you down here.”
“Both accurate and incredibly creepy, Dumont.” That got a chuckle out of him. “From now on, can you be where I expect you at all times?”
“No.”
I tossed up my hands. “Well, at least you gave it some real thought.”
Another chuckle. “You’re funny. How do you do that?”
Getting to his feet, Cato straightened to his full height—no crouching, hunching, growling, or snapping. Just all five foot eleven of every gorgeous inch of him.
I swallowed hard. Looking at him then—clear, enigmatic eyes; soft lips; shining raven hair; it was easy to forget I saw those lips rimmed with blood as they tore into human flesh.
“How am I funny?” I asked, voice a touch raspy.
“How do you make jokes when you’re sad?”
I froze. “Wha— I’m not. I’m not sad.”
Cato cocked his head. “You’re so sad, day can’t contain it. So in your dreams, you cry.”
A statement both simple and lyrical, and it punched the air out of my lungs. He heard me. During the night, Cato listened to me whimper and cry under grip of my nightmares.
Shame slicked my palms. “I’m sorry, Cato.”
“Why?”
“Because my nightmare woke you up. I don’t mean to make that much noise.”
His brows crowded together. “It’s not for you to be sorry when you’re sad. It’s for me to make you happy.”
My lips parted as my mind processed that. “You don’t have to make me happy,” I squeaked.
“I do. You’re kind. Beautiful. Smell like peaches. And you’re Winter’s,” he said, light and matter of fact. “Now you’re ours.”
Dizzy, my legs tried to dump me, dropping me on the doorframe. So many things said in such short sentences, and I couldn’t handle a single one. “I— Yours?”
Looping around my waist, Cato drew me in, molding me to his chest. My breath stopped as his cheek pressed to mine—smooth and warm—caressing as he did that day.
“I’ll make you happy again, Luna. Guard your dreams, steal your tears. Around your neck you’ll wear them, and they’ll never hurt you again.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” I whispered, resting my head on his shoulder as my arms moved on their own power, wrapping around him. “But I think I’d love that.”
“A present. I have one for you.”
I’d have to get used to Cato’s way of communicating, but it wouldn’t take me long. It was then wholly clear to me that I’d devote a significant portion of my life getting closer to Cato Dumont.