Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I towel off, slip into a clean pair of boxers, and slide into bed. The sheets are crisp and smooth. Too smooth, too empty. I try to sleep, but end up tossing and turning. The silence is too loud without the gentle sound of her heartbeat and breathing. Her face, her laugh, her touch keep me awake in a loop I can’t escape.
It’s two a.m. and the clock’s green glow mocks me.
I give up. I should try to do some work instead. I throw off the covers and let my feet hit the rug. Pulling on my dressing gown, I head downstairs. I pass through the manor’s dim halls, the chandeliers glinting faintly, and make for the kitchen.
I don’t call for staff, don’t want their efficiency, or their polite, nervous distance. I want the place where Lauren and I laughed, where we tried to bake a cake one night, flour dusting her nose, the batter lumpy, the oven too hot, the result a charred mess we ate anyway, giggling like kids. I smile at the memory, bittersweet, as I fill the kettle, the water hissing softly, and steep her favorite, some chamomile tea. Its floral scent curls into the air, reminding me even more of her.
Mug in hand, I wander to the living room, its floor-to-ceiling French windows framing the night, and sink into an armchair. I sip the tea. It’s pretty dull and tasteless, but I guess something meant to calm should taste that way. With a sigh, I glance out, my eyes drifting to her cottage, its stone facade pale under the moon.
It is then that I see it.
A flicker downstairs, not a lamp, not a shadow, but a glow, orange and alive. I gasp and my hand instinctively tightens on the mug as I lean forward, squinting, hoping I’m wrong. But it is there. Unmistakable; flames are licking the window, curling, growing. Cold panic seizes me. I drop the mug and scalding tea splashes on my legs, but I don’t feel it. My heart slamming against my ribs, I start running.
Out the door, across the gravel, my robe flapping, my voice tearing from my throat, raw, desperate.
“Lauren! Lauren!” I yell as I sprint toward the cottage.
The fire’s glow is getting brighter and fiercer, and I know she’s upstairs in her bedroom, because I put her there. She’s asleep and unaware. I can’t lose her. I can’t let this happen.
“Lauren! Lauren!” I scream, my lungs burning, my feet pounding, her name echoing in the dark, over and over.
“Lauren, Lauren, Lauren!”
I reach the door, and the blazing heat and thick black smoke are already in the living room. I don’t think, don’t stop, just push forward, because she’s in there, and nothing else matters.
Chapter
Forty-Five
LAUREN
I’m in Hugh’s sports car, that sleek yellow beast that hums with power, its leather seats cool against my thighs as we tear through the forest, the towering pines blurring into a green haze on either side. The speed is reckless, the needle flirting with ninety, then one hundred, then one hundred and fifty, two hundred, the engine roaring like a living thing, but with Hugh behind the wheel, his hands steady, his jaw set, I feel safe, untouchable, like nothing in the world could catch us.
The windows are down, the wind whipping my hair back, my hair dancing wildly, and I throw my arms out, palms open, catching the rush of air, squealing with a joy so sharp it bubbles up from my chest. Unstoppable. We are unstoppable.
“Go faster,” I urge.
I’m alive, electric, and he’s grinning, his sunglasses glinting in the dappled sunlight, his smile, all confidence and cheek, making my heart stutter. I lean forward impulsively and press a kiss to his cheek, his skin warm, rough with stubble. He turns, his gray eyes locking on mine, sparkling with mischief. Our lips meet, quick, heated, a spark that ignites something deeper. It is then that something slams into us.
A horrific, gut-wrenching jolt rips through the frame of the little yellow car, a bone-deep shock that throws me forward, my body straining against the seatbelt, my breath stolen. The metal chassis shrieks, a tortured wail of steel twisting, buckling under some unseen force, while the windshield and windows explode inward, glass fracturing into a thousand jagged shards that glitter like cruel stars.
But everything seems to be happening in slow motion, as the shards slice the air, grazing my cheek with a sting I barely register. My neck whips back, a violent snap that sends a searing, white-hot pain erupting from my spine. It radiates through my skull, my vision sparking as if lightning’s struck inside me.
We’re going to die, we’re both going to die.
The world collapses into chaos, the car flipping, rolling, each turn a sickening lurch that slams my body against the seat. Asphalt and sky blur together, a dizzying swirl of gray road and pale blue, trees and clouds smearing into a nauseating kaleidoscope, spinning, tumbling, until I can’t tell up from down, only the terror, and the deafening cacophony of destruction swallowing us whole.