Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Yeah, well, doesn’t take much.”
A heavy blanket of awwwwwkward drapes the room.
Congratulations, Wolf. You successfully turned your lifelong fantasy into an emotional crime scene.
If I had a dollar for every time I self-sabotaged, I could buy a space balloon and float into the void.
“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at me.” I force my gaze to hers. “For feeling too much. Too fast. Too stupid.”
“Nothing about this is stupid. I’m not good with words. I act on feeling and needed something to anchor me.” She pauses, chewing her lip. “I didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t want to be in my head. And I didn’t want to owe you anything. You helped me, and this was… I wanted to thank you. And to feel like I had some control again.” She winces. “That sounds terrible. I don’t mean it like that. I just… I don’t want to depend on anyone. Not even you. Even though I…”
I stare at her sidelong, waiting with held breath.
“Even though I find you impossibly attractive.” Her eyes shift to me. Honest. Tired. Raw.
I blink. And blink again.
A shit storm of confusion and lust knots in my gut. And that other thing I don’t let myself feel. The one that cartwheels in all cocky and irresponsible.
Hope.
That’s the one that infuriates me.
“Why now?” I lift my head, uncurling from my hunched position. “After ignoring me all day, what changed?”
“I thought you wanted me.” She doesn’t look away.
“I do.” The lump in my throat throbs. “But I’m not… I don’t know how to be normal.”
“I don’t want normal.” Her voice falls flat.
“You can sit closer.” I loosen my death grip on the hem of my shirt. “Just don’t ask about what you saw.”
She scoots toward me slowly, cautiously, until her thigh brushes mine.
“Closer.” I lean back, tucking my shirt into my pants.
After a beat, her hand reaches. Just her fingers on my arm.
We sit like that. Staring straight ahead. Neither of us moves.
Eventually, I pull in a breath and throw myself into the hush. “You ever try to scream, but your throat just locks up? Like you want to claw out the sound, but it won’t come?”
“All the time.” She turns toward me, holding my gaze.
“Yeah. That.”
“I get it.” She leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. “Thank you for stopping me. You would’ve regretted it.”
I huff a bitter breath. “Stopping you is the second most regrettable thing I’ve ever done.”
“And the first?”
“Jumping off an unsurvivable cliff.”
“You…” She tilts her head. “Jumped on purpose? To die?”
“To escape.”
“I’m glad you didn’t die.”
We both fall silent again.
The sketchpad sits forgotten on the table. The ghosts continue to hover. But they feel quieter now.
“If you want to give me something…” I shift, bringing my mouth within a kiss from hers. “Tell me the truth about Jag. I need to know if my family’s in danger. I need to know what you’re running from.”
She tenses. I feel it in her shoulders, in the acceleration of her breath.
“I won’t use it against you.” I touch the soft hair that flutters against her cheek. “But if there’s something we need to prepare for…”
“Okay.” She straightens and runs her hands along her thighs. “You’re right. I’ll tell you. Just… Don’t interrupt. It’s messy.”
I nod.
“I was eight when I watched Jag kill a man for the first time.”
“And here I thought this would be a slow burn story.”
“You’re interrupting.”
I mime zipping my lips.
“My mom married his dad when I was a baby. David Rath was the only father I knew. Our parents weren’t perfect, but they were good people. They loved each other. And they loved us.” She flexes her fingers on her knees, her voice hollow. “Until that night.”
I hold still, waiting for her to continue.
“Someone broke into our house. Jag pulled me into the kitchen pantry and covered my mouth while our parents were butchered on the other side of the door. I still remember the sound of their bodies hitting the floor.”
My eyes stay with hers, my expression stripped of shock and pity. I have no soft edges to offer, just understanding. I’ve lived through worse and learned that silence says more than sympathy.
“The murderer knew we were hiding in the pantry. I thought we were dead. But the instant that door opened, Jag attacked him with a kitchen knife. Stabbed him over and over and over. There was so much blood. I’ll never forget that smell. Or his total lack of emotion. He killed that man and showed no remorse. Nothing.” She licks her Medusa piercing. “After that, we ran, and for a while, Jag became my illegal guardian.”
“Illegal?”
“He was sixteen, barely able to take care of himself, let alone an eight-year-old. We lived on the streets, dodging social workers and cops. He taught me how to lie, how to steal, how to disappear. He saw threats everywhere, and me… I was the little sister he had to feed and protect. A burden. A reminder of the night he lost everything.”