Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Sly’s visit. How cold he was. How cruel.
The limousine. The man inside it. Chandler Carlisle-Bent. My uncle.
I press the heels of my hands into my forehead to relieve the pressure, the throbbing.
“Here,” Silas says.
I turn to watch him snap the lid off a bottle of aspirin. He drops two into his palm and holds them out to me. I look at his hand, remembering how it felt when he touched me. When he cradled me against himself. How warm and strong he was. How safe he made me think I was.
“For the pain,” he adds.
My forehead furrows as I recall Ethan saying those same words. He’d been drugging me for days. He drugged me in the car too, stabbed me with a syringe of something that had knocked me out.
Or was it the accident that knocked me out?
I look up at Silas. No, not an accident. It was intentional.
“You’re confused,” he repeats. “I’ll explain everything but know that you’re safe now, Ophelia.”
“You hit us.”
His eyes narrow as he searches my face. He nods once.
“Why?”
“I didn’t think the impact would be what it was. I’m sorry I hurt you. That wasn’t my intention.”
“What was your intention? What was it when you… when we…” My voice breaks, forcing me to stop before I say the words made love. “When we fucked? Was it just a bonus? On top of destroying my home? What was your intention in telling me you bought the house because it was mine? Was it to see how deeply you could wound me?” Warm tears slide down my cheeks. I can’t keep up with them.
“Ophelia, I didn’t do that. I wouldn’t. Whatever those bastards told you, it’s just not true.”
I shake my head, but even that hurts. I can’t look at him though, so I glance down to draw the blanket closer. It’s a faded crocheted thing that must have been bright and colorful once. The nightgown I’m wearing is old-fashioned and soft with wear. The bed creaks, the mattress is comfortable but the metal rungs of the headboard are painful against my tender back.
“I’m tired,” I say, pushing the blankets off on the side Silas is not standing. “I am so fucking tired of being manipulated by men who all want something from me.”
I slide my legs off the bed.
“Whoa, I’m not sure you’ll be able to stand yet.”
“That is not your concern.” I hold onto the nightstand and push myself up with the other hand, immediately nauseated and dizzy.
Silas is there in a split second, and when my knees buckle, he catches me. There’s a moment, a moment in which I hate myself, because my body wants to lean into his, wants to let him hold me.
But I am a poor judge of character, and the men in my life are liars, so I push him away and drop back onto the bed. The room spins. I close my eyes until it stops.
“I told you not to touch me.”
Once again, he is surprised by my reaction. How can he be, though? His expression darkens, and his jaw tightens. I see the effort it takes him to keep his hands at his sides as he clenches and unclenches them.
“Here,” he finally says. He picks up an eyeglass case and opens it. From inside he takes out a pair of glasses. They’re new. “I had them make new ones based on your last prescription. Lourdes picked them up. I thought since you weren’t wearing yours you might need them.”
I shift my gaze from him to the glasses. Does he want me to thank him? I take the glasses and put them on because I need them. I don’t thank him.
I take in the room properly. We’re in some sort of cabin, and it’s nighttime. Snow has collected in an arc on each pane of the two windows, and a fire is burning in the small wood burner. The blanket that had covered me looks like it was hand crocheted, and with my glasses on I can see the care and detail that went into it. There’s a small desk and a wooden chair along the far wall and lace curtains hang open around the windows.
I turn to Silas. “Where am I?”
“About an hour out of Sinistral. We’re in a cabin near the chapel where my mother was buried. Do you remember where that is?”
It takes me a minute, but I nod because I do, vaguely. It’s up along the cliffs. Dad had mentioned where Silas had buried his mother. There’s a national forest up here that I’ve been to with Dad years ago but it’s usually unreachable in winter due to the snow.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“How long have I been here?” I ask, ignoring his question.
“Three days.”
“Three days?” I ask, stunned. I seem to be in the habit of losing days in threes.