Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“I did,” I say hastily.
And the breath he takes at that is so loud and so heavy that it sounds like a growl.
I jerk closer to him. “But only because I’m yours.”
Another growly breath.
“B-because I wanted…”
“Wanted what?”
His words are growls too. And they clench my heart.
They fucking clench my soul.
Because I know how this is going to sound. How awful this is going to sound.
How the truth will come out.
All my lies catching up to me.
But then from the looks of it, they already have, so.
I fist my hands and whisper, “I wanted to fix it.”
His body flinches.
With a storm, I think.
And I wish I could wrap him in my arms right now and make this raging storm go away. Like I did back at that funeral. But I guess I brought this upon myself and him with my lying and hiding things.
“On the day of the funeral,” I begin, my heart in my throat, “when Lucas took me to his dad’s study. I… He wanted to talk about the ultimatum. He wanted to know about my decision. And I told him. I told him that I couldn’t…” I take a deep breath. “Go back to him. I told him it would be wrong to go back to him. That I wasn’t the girl who could make him happy. Who could give him all the things he deserved. So I… I cut ties with him. A-and he assumed it was because of you. He thought I was p-picking you and he said some things in anger. He threatened you, and I… texted him a few days ago — two texts; I wasn’t blowing up his phone or anything — to just… talk to him. To see where his head was at and if I could somehow convince him to… not be angry at you. Because I was the one who rejected him, not you. So yeah, to fix it.”
Like a good girl.
I wanted to fix this for Reign. I wanted to look for hope.
That one day they might become friends again.
That’s why I texted my ex-boyfriend behind his back, the guy I love. That I’ve always loved.
I knew at the time what I was doing was wrong. I’m not an expert in relationships — God, I’m not, and neither am I an expert in love — but I do know that you shouldn’t have secrets when you are in love.
That when you’re in love, you should be able to tell them who you are, what you are.
You should be able to tell them all your deep dark secrets.
All your deep dark desires and dreams and fantasies.
When you are in love, you should be each other’s diaries.
Lovesick, lovestruck, lovestung.
And my ex-boyfriend wasn’t. That in itself should’ve been a clue, but yeah.
I know this now because of him.
Because of my Bandit.
And when I came clean to him about my feelings, I was going to tell him about this as well.
So maybe it’s okay that he knows now.
That he knows everything.
His jaw is so tightly shut at the moment, so tightly clenched that I want to cradle it in my hand and trace it lovingly. Like a girlfriend does.
Because I am his girlfriend.
Whether he likes it or not.
He doesn’t, in fact, like it. Because he unhinges his jaw and asks, “Why?”
I understand this as well.
His volley of ‘why’ from before. What he wants to know.
“Because I did.”
His brows snap together.
“Pick you. Over him.” And then I just let it out. “And that’s because I’m sick. I’m sick in love with you.”
I guess what they say is right.
That there’s a peace in being yourself.
And I’ve been feeling that over the last few weeks. Ever since I found out that I loved him. That I’ve loved him all along.
Since then I’ve been feeling happier, lighter, more one with myself.
But not like this.
Not like how amazing I feel right now.
How euphoric, ecstatic and rapturous.
And also devastated and destroyed and demolished.
Because my rapture has come at the cost of his hatred. His fury. His blazing anger.
All of which I can see on his face right now.
His black and blue and beautiful face.
The face of my dreams.
And nightmares.
“Actually, no,” I say then. “I didn’t pick you over him. I just never picked him over you. Because there was never really any choice. No choice for me but you. And I wish I’d known that, you know? I wish I was smarter. And I always thought that I was. I mean, I read books. I was, am, a bookworm. I’m a writer. I write in my journals every day. And people who write are very self-reflective. They’re very self-aware. Very in touch with their inner selves. But as it turns out, I wasn’t. And I guess that’s because I always put too much pressure and emphasis on what is supposed to be. What I’m supposed to be doing. How I’m supposed to be making other people happy. How I’m supposed to be doing the right thing and make my boyfriend happy. And so in all of that, I never found out what I really want.