Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“What is it about then? What do you want?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His expression shifts again, and I see the raw vulnerability he tries so hard to hide, that humanity beneath the monster he’s supposed to be. “I don’t know,” he says, and I believe him because there’s no artifice in his voice, no calculation, just honest confusion. “But I’m trying to figure it out. The one thing I do know is I want you.”
The pills pull me under, dragging me down into that soft, warm darkness where pain fades and fear fades, and even the confusion about what I am to him fades until all that’s left is this moment, his presence anchoring me, his voice wrapping around me like a blanket. The feeling of being cared for, even if it’s twisted and wrong, even if I shouldn’t want it, even if it makes me a traitor to myself and everything I used to believe in.
“Stay,” I say, the word slurred and drugged and desperate in ways I’ll probably regret when I’m clearheaded. “Don’t want to be alone.”
“Okay. Let me just grab you a protein bar first. You need to eat something.”
He rushes out of the room and returns quickly. I don’t realize how hungry I am until he unwraps the chocolate chip peanut butter bar and presses it into my hand. I scarf it down in minutes and it soothes some of the nausea in my belly.
Once he’s satisfied, he shifts and lies down beside me, careful not to jostle my wound, and his arm drapes over my stomach, warm and solid and real, anchoring me to something tangible while the pills drag me down into darkness. This is wrong. I know it’s wrong, know I shouldn’t want him here, shouldn’t feel safe with his arms around me, shouldn’t find comfort in the steady rhythm of his breathing or the heat of his body next to mine.
But I do.
When I wake again, the room is dim, with late-afternoon light filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The pills have worn off enough that I can think clearly, leaving just a dull ache in my hip that’s bearable and manageable, but everything still feels hazy around the edges, soft and distant, like I’m viewing the world through gauze.
Calder is still beside me, lying on top of the covers with his arm still around my stomach like he’s been there the whole time, like he hasn’t moved since I asked him to stay.
I shift slightly, and when searing agony doesn’t rip through me, I find myself grateful for the pills even though I hate the fact that I need them.
“Hey,” he says quietly, and I realize he’s been awake, probably has been this whole time, watching me sleep. “How do you feel?”
“Fuzzy.”
“That’s the pills.”
I turn my head to look at him properly, and he’s so close, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw that he hasn’t shaved, close enough to see the way his eyes aren’t quite as cold when he looks at me, like the ice is melting around the edges.
“I’m marked now,” I say, and the words feel important somehow, like acknowledging it out loud makes it real in a way it wasn’t before, makes it permanent and undeniable. “Permanently yours.”
“Yeah.”
“Should I feel different? I thought I would feel different, like the brand would change something fundamental inside me, but nothing’s different. Everything is still the same, except there’s pain now.”
His hand tightens a fraction on my waist, and I feel the tension in his body, the careful control he’s maintaining. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” The question comes out softer than I mean it to, not accusatory but genuinely curious, because I need to understand what goes on in his head, what he thinks about when he looks at the brand he let his father burn into my skin. “Or are you sorry it had to be this way?”
“Both.”
We lie there in the dimness, his warmth against my side grounding me, the steady rhythm of his breathing like a metronome marking time. Something shifts in me, something I don’t want to name or acknowledge or think about too hard because if I do, I’ll have to face what I’m becoming.
The pills make everything hazy, make my body feel languid and warm despite the pain, make me hyperaware of every place Calder’s touching me—his hand on the bare skin just above the edge of my panties, his chest pressed against my side, his breath ghosting across my hair. I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him, but the pills blur the lines between should and want, between right and wrong, between captive and something else entirely that I’m afraid to name.
“Calder?”
“Yeah?”
“The pills make everything feel…” I search for the right word, for a way to explain this feeling without admitting too much. “Different.”