Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Grant raised his brows.
“My brother and my cousins are much less descriptive when they threaten me. I like the visceral touch.”
Grant rubbed his temples. “Why here? Why did they have to send you here?”
“My brother thought the fresh air might ‘make me actually think for once.’”
“It’s not working.”
“Give it time,” Jacob said.
Was it working, though? While it might not have been the sanest thing to toy with Blade the way I had, to beg him to fuck me, to… I shivered at the memories from earlier in the evening. I’d felt more alive, freer, with him than I had anywhere or with anyone else for a very long time.
7
BLADE
I scrubbed my hands over my face and prayed Carlo wouldn’t tell anyone about what happened. Maybe he wouldn’t be here long, and I could just stay in the cabin until he left. If I needed something, Rogue would bring it to me, and I’d owe him a favor. I gripped the doorknob and pulled myself to my feet. My whole body was shaking, and I was unsteady on my feet, but I managed to get to the bathroom, where I turned the shower on scalding hot and scrubbed myself. At least I could get my skin clean, even if my mind remained a mess.
When I stepped into the bedroom to find a clean pair of boxers, I saw the rumpled bedsheets Carlo had gripped to steady himself and the pants I’d tied his hands with. The scent of him seemed to surround me. I wanted to bury my face in the sheets and pull that smell into me.
I ran to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. I fumbled with the top, finally getting it open so I could tip the bottle back and gulp it down until I started to choke.
I needed oblivion.
When I’d first gotten back to the States, I’d drunk myself to sleep every night until Grant and Fox, another member of my platoon, intervened. Now I only drank when things were really bad. Surely this had to count.
After a few more swallows, I went back to the bedroom, stripped the bed, tossed the ruined pajama pants, and threw everything else in the washing machine. I locked my knife away and did what I could to make the room look as sterile and boring as it had before Carlo had decided to play Goldilocks at my cabin.
Had he really called me Papa Bear. What the fuck?
Once I was satisfied that I’d erased Carlo from the cabin—though not from my head—I returned to the whiskey, hoping it would finish the job.
I turned out the light and sat on the couch. The only sounds came from an owl hooting in the trees and something rustling in the leaves. I froze. Carlo? Had he come back? What would I do if he did? It wasn’t him. Even in my drunken haze, I knew the sounds hadn’t been made by human footsteps. I tipped the bottle up again, determined to forget this night.
Someone was trying to break my skull by banging on it over and over. I tried to fight them off, but all I managed to do was knock the blanket off my head and allow the sun to pierce into my eyes.
I had decided the banging was actually coming from inside my head, but then the whole cabin shook. “Blade, are you in there? Answer the door.”
Rogue. Why was he trying to split my head open?
“I’m going to break the door down if you don’t answer it.”
Shit. He was at the door. I tried to call out to him, but my mouth was too dry to let any words form. It also tasted like a dead skunk.
I managed to half crawl, half hobble to the door and crack it open. “What the he—”
“Bad night?”
I nodded, but the movement made my stomach clench. I fought back the nausea and managed to gesture for him to come in. He’d think I’d been having nightmares, but that was better than him knowing about Carlo.
Rogue hesitated. “I can leave. I know you usually don’t like company after…”
One of my “spells” as my mother had called them. There was a reason I wasn’t staying with her anymore. He was right about me wanting to be alone, but I also needed someone to make me coffee—and maybe some eggs and ham—before this hangover killed me. “Water,” I croaked.
Rogue rushed to the kitchen, filled a glass, and handed it to me. I took a cautious sip, then another before sinking back onto the couch. I barely managed to get the glass onto the side table without turning it over.
Rogue wrinkled his nose. “You stink.”
“Thanks.”
He picked up the empty whiskey bottle from the floor.
“Did you drink the whole thing?”
“It wasn’t quite full.”
“No wonder you weren’t answering your phone.”