Series: The Moretti Crime Family Series by J.L. Beck
Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 111428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut, like that’s going to make me disappear. I know she’s going to struggle, so I move with rapid reflexes, snaking one hand beneath her legs while wrapping the other around her back and pulling her into my chest. Like a stallion, she bucks against my chest, but I hold her tighter.
“Please, don’t… please…” Fallon cries while continuing to struggle in my grasp.
“Shhh, stop fighting me,” I hush, but that only seems to make her fight me more. “I’m not letting you go,” I growl like an animal.
The mere thought of her trying to escape makes me feral. I’m reminded that that’s exactly what she did. I told her to remain in the closet, and she didn’t. She ran right outside as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. I’m tempted to fucking put her on the ground and rut into her a thousand times over, marking her body with my own while telling her over and over again that she will never be free of me, but I don’t.
She is too close to the edge, too close to breaking, and I will not be the one that does that to her, no matter how tempting it is. When we reach the house, I jog up the stairs and into the bedroom. My thoughts are hyper-focused. I need to clean Fallon and myself, pack a light bag, and get the fuck out of here.
The cabin is no longer secure, and I was foolish for thinking that whoever is after me would stop at one person.
Placing her at the foot of the bed, I walk into the bathroom and retrieve a washcloth. When I return to the bed, I find Fallon in the same position I left her. Her chin is tucked into her chest, and she looks more scared than I’ve ever seen her before.
My shirt, the shirt she wore to bed, is tattered, hanging off one shoulder haphazardly.
The blood in my veins burns red hot as I drop my gaze, dragging it over her tiny body. Bruises have already started to form on her tender skin, and there is blood everywhere. It’s hard to tell if she is bleeding or if the blood staining her skin came from me.
I look down at her legs, her thighs, where fingertip bruises have formed. I know he didn’t rape her. I know because I got there just in time. If I allow myself, I can still hear her screams. The bloodcurdling sound may live with me forever.
“Did he hurt you anywhere?” I ask, not wanting to know but needing to know all at once.
When she doesn’t move, doesn’t even speak, I grip her by the chin and lift her face, so it meets mine. There is a turbulent storm brewing in her blue eyes. Pain, grief, and sadness consume her. She is lost inside herself right now. Unfortunately for her, things are going to get worse before they get better.
“Did he hurt you anywhere?” I repeat, this time a little slower.
Fallon stares at me for a long moment before shaking her time.
I nod and brush a few matted strands of hair from her face. She has a scratch above her eye and across her cheek that she must’ve gotten from a stray branch or twig. The other cheek is unscratched but swollen and red.
Using my thumb, I trace the cuts, making sure they’re not deep. Her feet look to be cut up from running through the woods barefoot, but aside from bruises and the terror she is feeling, she will make it.
I release my hold on her chin, and her face falls once again.
She is broken, my beautiful flower, but she will prevail. I’m vaguely aware I should be punishing her right now, but what that fucker did to her is punishment enough.
I use the washcloth and clean the cuts on her face and feet. She has a little blood on her shoulder and arms, so I clean that off too.
“Take off your shirt,” I order gruffly, my patience already shredded.
Fallon seems to fall deeper into herself, and I decide to take matters into my own hands. Leaving her once more, I go into the closet, find a shirt, yoga pants, and a fresh pair of panties. When I return, I dress her like a small doll, looking over her body for any injuries she may have been lying about. She reacts only briefly to my touch with a flinch, as if I’m going to hit her.
She should know better than that. I’ve had all the time in the world to hurt her, and I haven’t. When I’m finished getting her dressed, I strip out of my pants, which are far less bloody than my skin. It looks like I bathed in the blood of my enemies.