Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
My brows furrow. A minute ago he was telling me the only way we’re getting out of Blue Springs is if we were carted out in body bags, and now suddenly, nobody is going to take me away from him? Why would he . . . unless . . .
I lift my gaze, meeting his hollow stare again, and I see it clear as day. The same overwhelming emotions that cause havoc inside my chest lie right there in his eyes. “You’re in love with me too,” I state, knowing it without a single doubt.
“Yes, Siren.”
I drop my gaze and rest back into his chest as his strong arms hold me in a way I’ve never been held before. “Shit,” I murmur, not knowing where to go from here.
“My thoughts exactly.”
We sit in comfortable silence for almost an hour, both of us deep in our own thoughts, when his hand brushes down my arm. “Tell me why the sound of your own name pains you so much?” he asks, his voice so welcoming that it takes me a moment to understand what he’s actually asking. After repeating the question in my head, my heart lurches, fear raining down over me, but I quickly realize that he’s not asking to gloat. He’s not looking for information to use as a weapon against me; he simply wants to understand who I am and what made me the way that I am.
I let out a heavy breath, my gaze dropping to his chest. “I was only six when my mother was murdered,” I tell him. “We weren’t exactly well off, and from what brief memories I have, it wasn’t exactly a happy home, but my mom . . . She only ever wanted the world for me. She was my best friend, and I remember that, no matter the circumstances, she would make everything better. My father, on the other hand—”
“Shit, Siren. It’s okay. You don’t need to share this if it’s too much.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s not what you’re thinking.” I take a shaky breath before figuring out how to explain the evil, vile man that was my father. “My memories of my father are . . . jaded. I don’t remember him in the same way. I only remember the constant yelling and how my mother would hide me behind her leg every time he would start ranting at her about dinner not being ready or the house being a mess. He made her sad, and because of that, he made me sad too. I think he struggled with mental health, but I was too young to know what that was or to even realize that he needed help.”
“You were six, Siren. It wasn’t your responsibility to care for the health of the adults in your life.”
“I know that,” I tell him. “But I can’t help but wonder if I had, maybe things would have been different.”
His fingers skim across my waist and return to my arm, holding me tight against his warm chest. “What happened?”
“My memories of that night have always been fuzzy, but from what Mila and I were able to find from the police records, my father had been sacked from his job, and he came home drunk with a gun. The neighbors had mentioned they heard yelling and called for help, only they were too late. He shot and killed my mom in our living room, tried to kill me, then turned the gun on himself.”
My eyes fill with unshed tears, and I do what I can to blink them back as I reach down between us and find the hem of my tank, pulling it up just enough so that he can see the scarring on my ribs. “He shot me through the chest and punctured a lung, and as I screamed for my dead mother, I was forced to watch as he held the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” I lower my shirt back down just as he goes to reach for it, and now that he knows, I’m not sure I can handle him touching me there. “That vision has stuck with me for eighteen years. Every time I close my eyes.”
Reaper’s hands fall to my thighs, gently squeezing. “I’m sorry, Siren. I had no idea.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nobody does. I asked Mila to scrub it from existence. I didn’t want anyone finding out and being able to use it as a weapon against me or have access to the crime scene photos that went along with it.”
He nods in understanding. “Shit, baby. I’m sorry I brought it up, but I’m struggling to see how it pertains to the use of your real name.”
A sad smile pulls at the corners of my lips, and despite how agonizing that story is to share, it’s what happened after that has caused me the most grief over the years. “I was in the hospital for months following the shooting. Day after day, I was alone. All I had were the nurses and doctors who cared for me, and the day I was finally released, I had a caseworker buckle me up into her car, drive me halfway across the state, and drop me off at a home with a family I’d never met. I had nothing left of my old life, no memories of my mother to take with me, only the name she’d given me.”