Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
If she thinks she hates me now, I can’t imagine how she’ll feel once all her memories return. Fucking fuck!! I try to banish the thoughts, push them deep into the back of my mind as I stand outside the bedroom door, but the thing about anger is the more you try to swallow it down the harder it becomes to control, and I’ve reached my breaking point.
Two steps. That’s as far as I get before I snap. With a sweep of my hand I clear the table in the hall, sending whatever expensive decor is in my path of destruction onto the hardwood floor. Glass shatters, the shards scattering about the hallway and onto the rugs.
I stare at the destruction I’ve caused. Feel better? Fuck, no. I slam a closed fist against my forehead, trying to reason with myself.
For one second—one fucking second—I thought maybe...maybe she'd finally accept me. I expected her to be pissed off about the forced marriage part; that’s understandable. At some point I would’ve been able to woo her, seduce her into submission, but now… I can’t unsee the disgust in her eyes. It’s there every time her gaze meets mine. My heart squeezes in my chest. She doesn’t see me anymore; she sees a murderer.
Is that all I am? All I'll ever be now?
What’s the fucking point in trying to make her love me? Why not be the monster she thinks I am? I could do it. I could show her how good she had it, how merciful I was to her.
No.
I can’t.
I can’t do that to her. She deserves more than that.
I suck a ragged breath into my lungs, but it doesn’t even feel like I’m breathing.
Do it. Become the monster. Something dark and twisted inside whispers of my darkest fantasies.
Rage grips me by the throat, and my body is moving before I can think of the consequences. I grab the table and toss it across the floor, watching as it splinters into pieces. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. My chest heaves with the exertion of breathing. There's nothing left in my eyeline to destroy, but the rage still lingers. It’s a poison that will eat me alive if I don’t do something to stop it. Turning to the wall I clench my hand into a tight fist.
Monster. You’re a fucking monster. The words rattle around inside my head.
Rearing my arm back, I slam my fist into the wall. My knuckles ache at the impact, but I don’t stop. Not until my fist is through the drywall. There is no relief, no release of pressure. Instead my anger ripples through me just as hot as it was.
“Then what? How long until you kill me? I mean, just because I’m your wife, that doesn’t automatically make me safe.” Her words echo in my head. Does she really think so little of me? That I would save her, marry her, only to turn around and kill her? I don’t understand.
Maybe it's a result of her kidnapping, or maybe it's my own fault. I spent so fucking long trying to keep her at a distance, trying to stop myself from falling for her, stop myself from giving a shit about her that inevitably that’s what I did. It shouldn’t have taken until now for me to pull my head out of my ass. I should’ve proved to her what she meant to me earlier, proven I could keep her safe.
Now I have to start all over again. Prove no one else will ever make her fear for her life again, because if they do, I’ll kill them.
I hate myself—for making her fear me, for not telling her the truth. For fighting against fate. All at once the pain rushes out of me like lava spewing from a volcano. I’m out of control, spiraling. I slam my fists into the wall. My knuckles scream as the skin breaks, and red stains the pristine white paint. I smile. I fucking smile. Euphoria rushes through me at the sight of my own blood. Why do I crave this bite of pain? Pain reminds me I’m alive. I know I’m fucked up.
It’s only when a bone deep ache settles in my wrists and fingers that I pause. It doesn't matter. I’m just a killer. Lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to pull the trigger.
Murderer. Murderer.
It’s not like she knows the whole truth, that what I did was to save her. Save her from trauma, from pain. She should be thanking me, but instead all she sees is the darkness. The worst parts of me.
An agonized scream works its way up my throat, and I muffle it against the wall, against the cracks forming in front of my face. I'm still panting, and I try to slow my breathing, try to take a breath, but doing so forces tears to my eyes that I'm sure as shit not going to let fall.