Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
And she’s here, locked in this house, in a room far grander than the one she was given back in Miami. She’s scarcely left it since we arrived, and I’ve only set eyes upon her when necessary. This morning, for instance, when I entered the room just long enough to inform her, I’d be leaving for the funeral. She was smart enough not to say a word. A part of me expected her to offer condolences, which might have finally been what broke my resolve and pushed me to break her.
I pour another drink after draining the glass, wandering out of the parlor and up the stairs. There’s no question where I’m heading. She’s the only thing on my brain, the image of her face permanently etched at the forefront of my mind’s eye. No amount of drinking could erase her, no more than it could erase the bitter, burning sense of betrayal. The rage.
I unlock the door and swing it open slowly, not saying a word, wondering what I’ll catch her doing. There’s nothing in here she can use against me—I’ve already searched thoroughly—but she’s a clever one. Cunning. How else could she have pulled the proverbial wool over my eyes all this time?
She isn’t creating a rope out of bed sheets or fashioning a weapon. She’s only sleeping, lying on her back with one arm folded over her abdomen while the other is bent, her hand resting on the pillow, close to her face. She’s peaceful, without so much as a care lining her smooth brow. Her breathing is soft and even.
Something moves in me, shifts. I swallow hard against whatever is trying to work its way out of my chest—whatever it is, it isn’t rage. I’m far too familiar with that emotion to mistake it. This isn’t the rush of heat brought about by mindless rage.
It’s warmth. Something close to tenderness, perhaps.
She is the last person in the world who deserves it. I stand a bit straighter and lift my chin in defiance. Of what? My own weakness, I suppose. The very thing that brought me here. The very thing that killed my grandfather, no matter who pulled the trigger. It was I who put him in that position. I might as well have placed the gun in the murderer’s hand.
She doesn’t stir when I enter the room, though the carpet beneath my feet muffles my steps. I place my glass on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed, perching carefully, knowing anything more would wake her immediately. I don’t know why, but I want to have this moment with her. A moment of peace. A moment in which she has no idea of the danger she’s in while she sleeps peacefully. The wolf sitting beside her.
It would take no effort at all. A hand over her face to stop her breathing. Not a pillow; I would want to watch her panic, not simply imagine it from the other side of the pillow. I could crush her throat. Snap her neck. Or I could do it the old-fashioned way and simply put a bullet in her head.
I’m considering this when suddenly, she stirs. Does she sense me? Probably not, because her absolute shock is not the sort of thing that could be feigned. Immediately, she begins scrambling away, tears springing to her eyes as she attempts to leap across the bed away from me.
I’m too fast, and I reach out wrapping an arm around her waist, while using my other hand to cover her mouth. “Stop crying,” I growl, holding her tight. “I’m sick to death of hearing you cry. Was it your grandfather who was murdered in front of you? What the fuck reason do you have to cry?” Eventually, she calms herself, her mouth still covered. But there are no more tears, and her breathing has calmed to something more normal, less hitching and gasping.
I lower my hand, then take hold of the glass I set down. “It’s over,” I inform her as if she couldn’t put that together on her own. “He’s in the ground. Congratulations. We did it. We got him killed.”
“I know it doesn’t mean anything, but—”
“Don’t waste your breath,” I mutter, staring down into the glass. I should have brought the entire bottle. This won’t be nearly enough. The warmth of her body calls to me. I merely glance at her, watching her out of the corner of my eye. Dammit, there’s still something about her body. She has a way of making me react, though it’s the last thing I want to do. I can’t afford to be weak, not again, and certainly not because of her. But the memory of her lusciousness, her sweetness, it’s all still so fresh. And she is right here, lying only inches from where I sit.