Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I wander through the empty halls until I finally find my bedroom. It looks the same way it did before I left for prison. I used to lay on the thin, dirty mattress in my cell and dream of the huge California King-sized bed in the middle of this room. It has a luxurious memory foam topped mattress and it’s covered in a designer dark green and brown comforter with gold trim—the epitome of comfort and quiet luxury.
I’m looking at my bed but not seeing it. Instead, I’m thinking of Sunny’s bed with its cheerful patchwork quilt made by her Nan. I think of holding her in it, caressing her and spooning her small, curvy body, kissing her, making her come…
I make myself stop picturing the past. I’ll never hold her again.
I look at the bed once more. Right now, I couldn’t care less where I sleep. I feel like my heart has been torn out and I don’t give a fuck if I even wake up the next morning.
I’ve been driving for hours and I need a shower. But if I take one, I’ll wash the last of Sunny’s scent off my skin—I can’t fucking bear to do that.
I fall into bed, dirty and miserable, and try to get some sleep. But every time I close my eyes I see her—her beautiful face and big, gorgeous eyes, her sweet, kissable mouth and the freckles on the bridge of her nose. I keep remembering how kind she was—and how she could get bossy in that adorable way of hers.
I wish I could hold her in my arms just one more time. I wish I could explain what really happened and apologize for fucking up her life, but I’m afraid she won’t want any contact with me at all now. Hell, she doesn’t even know who I am! She just knows me as some guy who impersonated her brother.
I need to let her go—to leave her alone. But I’m almost sure she really is a Repressed Omega. I need to let her know what’s going to start happening to her—she’s going to have a Heat Cycle and her breasts are going to fill with nectar. Hell, she’s going to need to be bred—her desire for male seed, both in her pussy and in her mouth, is going to be insatiable.
Sunny needs to know what’s heading her way like a freight train barreling down the tracks she’s tied to.
But why would she believe anything I say now? I’m a liar and a cheat and a murderer to her. I can’t believe that fucking Charles even dug up my charge! Though I’m sure he didn’t get into the details of who I killed and why. I had a fucking good reason for what I did.
I can’t just send her a letter explaining she has Werewolf blood in her. She’s been raised as a human—she’ll think I’m crazy. Hell, she probably already thinks that. Who else but a crazy person would pretend to be someone else’s brother for two long years? She’ll probably rip up anything I send her or delete any emails or texts. She’s not going to want to hear from me again at all.
My brain goes on like that, all fucking night. I swear I don’t get a wink of sleep. By the time I call Branson and ask him to come over the next day, I feel more exhausted than I ever have in my life. Even my first day of prison wasn’t this hard—and believe me, it was fucking rough.
My fatigue and misery must show on my face because Branson takes one glance at me and looks extremely concerned.
“Mr. Lowell…Connor. What happened?” he asks. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look terrible. Did something go amiss with your errand?”
“You could say that,” I say grimly. “The whole situation went straight to Hell, Branson.”
“Ah, I see.” He comes into the mansion’s study and sits down in one of the leather wingback chairs. All around us are shelves full of leather-bound books. This was my father’s favorite room in the house when he was still alive.
I sit across from him, looking into the empty fireplace but seeing nothing but Sunny’s face.
“Would you care to discuss it, Sir?” Branson asks. “You know your business will be kept in strictest confidence. Sometimes one just needs to talk.”
Branson is right—I do need to talk. I tell him everything. How I started writing to Sunny in the first place…how I only meant to stop by Singing Rock for an hour or two and how an hour stretched into a day and a night and the rest of the time I was there.
“I fell in love with her, Branson,” I admit heavily. “But I fucked it all up. Her fucking boyfriend found out my real identity and came and told her. She kicked me out—can’t say that I blame her.”