Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 81504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
He comes out of the bathroom with a towel slung about his waist, droplets of water still dotting his muscled, broad shoulders.
I shake my head. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not in the mood for any funny business.” A corner of his lips quirks up.
“You’re adorable, you know that?” He chuckles, muttering under his breath, “funny business.”
I smile shyly. “I just… don’t want you getting the wrong idea, but I did want to admire your manly physique.”
I giggle. “Show off.”
He wiggles his eyebrows and flexes an arm, his bicep bulging. It’s easy to forget this man is a trained killer, one of the most well-respected and most feared in all of Ballyhock. But somehow, as I watch him get dressed for the day, I realize who he is and what he does doesn’t bother me the way it did before. This time, it makes me feel… safe. I’m inside a heavily-guarded home, surrounded by the fierce protection of the Clan, with a man who’d raze full cities to protect me. I know this now.
He winks, just as a knock sounds at the door to signal that our food is here.
“I’ll get that.”
His brows raise, and his voice grows stern. “You’ll stay right there in bed.”
And for once in my life, I do what he tells me.
His gaze warms. “Good girl.”
He brings our food, and I manage to eat a few bites of a scone. The tea tastes delicious, though, piping hot and strong, laced with creamy milk and a dollop of sugar.
“Another, lass?” he says, holding the teapot. I nod, and gratefully drink another full cup.
We stay home from school. We walk along the cliffs that overlook the Irish Sea, and though the pungent salt and biting wind make me shiver, I don’t want to leave. The wildness speaks to a loneliness in my very soul, and I want to stay here forever. But when my fingers are red and my hair a knotted mess, Tully finally takes my hand and makes me go home.
We eat a quiet dinner of the kitchen’s famous stew and crusty bread. Though I pass on the pint of frothy, cold ale, he lets me take liberal sips of his. Finally, I go back to sleep, grateful I can rest again before I do it all over.
“You alright?” Tully asks, in various ways throughout the day, every day.
“Do you need anything?”
“Do you need to talk?”
“Are you okay?”
“What can I do for you?”
For a gruff kind of guy, he has a surprising tender side.
I suspect he fears I’ll need something and somehow he’ll fail to provide exactly what I need. But it’s a bit stifling.
Finally, three days after my miscarriage, one morning I snap.
“Tully, please.”
He looks at me in confusion. “Please what?”
“Please stop hovering like a mother hen.”
He snorts. “I’m hardly hovering like a mother hen, lass. Honestly.”
“You practically help me as I wipe my arse.”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t.”
But he does. Every time I move, his eyes are on me, watching me.
“You do, though. And I’m fine. It was a terrible experience, and I never want to experience it again, and I have the utmost respect and admiration and empathy for women who have. But honestly? I’m alright.”
He frowns. “Fine. But I’ll tell you this. There are some things I can’t prevent, like… what happened to you.” He can’t even bring himself to say it, and I understand. “But there are some things I can, and I will do whatever is in my control to protect you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I can protect you here, as mine.”
Neither one of us speaks at first, and the question that comes to my mind now likely comes to his as well.
Am I still his now that I no longer carry his baby? Can he still claim me the way he said he would?
“Well,” I say tightly, unable to really be as nonchalant as I’d intended. “If it makes you feel any better, then… fine.”
He stands with his hands on his hips, glaring at me. “Fine?”
“Right, then. Fine.” I mutter under my breath, the natural instinct to push him away resurfacing. I don’t want to. I don’t even like that I respond this way, but there are times when closeness and vulnerability scare the hell out of me. I turn away from him, muttering under my breath, “If this isn’t the most riveting conversation I’ve ever had…”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his eyes narrow and his lips thin. I turn and walk away. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t know what to say. Something deep inside me feels broken and unhinged, but I don’t know what it is or how to begin to fix it.
I get ready for the day, but can’t find anything to wear.