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)
“Tell me what that means!”
“Goddammit.” Calder snaps. “You’re acting like I wanted this to happen. Like I fucking planned for you to open that door.”
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes. I’ve never seen him angry like this, never experienced his wrath. How could I when I don’t even know him? “I was trying to help someone!”
“Hows that going for you?” His voice drops low, rough, each word dragged out like he wants me to feel the weight of it. Moving closer he looms over the bed, his size and presence is overwhelming in the small space. The muscles in his jaw clench, lips curling back just enough to show the anger simmering there. His eyes—dark, unblinking—pin me down harder than his shadow. “This should prove as an example to you, to mind your own business. If you would’ve stayed inside, where you were safe, you wouldn’t be here right now.” His mouth twists on the word safe, like it’s poison. A humorless smile ghosts his lips, then vanishes as if it was never there. “But you didn’t. You had to do what you always do. Help. Care. Be your overly good fucking self!”
How dare he act like my compassion is a character flaw, like trying to help someone is a sin. How dare he! Anger cuts through my fear, hot and bright, making me volatile, and braver than I really am.
“I’m sorry if my good nature offends you—” the words tear out of me in a growl as I wrench against the handcuff, the steel biting into my wrist, “—that I wanted to save someone’s life. That I couldn’t stand there and watch a man bleed out on my porch. Not all of us are heartless monsters like you.”
Calder’s lip curls into a mocking smile. “Finally. I was worried you might still see me as the hero. Happy to see that kiss didn’t go to your head.”
I can’t believe I ever thought there was anything good inside him. That I even cared about him. That I gave him my first kiss.
My throat tightens, but the words tumble out anyway. “Kissing you was the biggest mistake I ever made and I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
My chest aches as the lie burns through me. I swear he flinches as if my words have the power to hurt him. I was naive to think that there was something good inside him. That maybe he was worth going against everything I was raised to believe.
“If you’re trying to hurt my feelings you’ll have to try harder.”
“Why didn’t you just kill me? You had the chance. Why cause all this trouble for yourself?”
The change is immediate. His shoulders tense beneath his shirt, and a vein stands out in his neck, pulsing with the effort to stay controlled. Right now, he looks less like the untouchable monster my father painted him as and more like a man cornered by his own truth. He curls his hands into fists at his sides, the knuckles straining white.
“I don’t have an answer for you.”
“Well, I want one.”
“That’s too damn bad, sweetheart, because you aren’t getting one.” The endearment doesn’t hit its mark and I wouldn’t want to be his sweetheart anyway.
“You did this for a reason, and I want to know what that reason is.”
“Sometimes there isn’t a reason, Saint. Sometimes people do things and they don’t know why.” His gaze darts to my wrist, the one cuffed to the bed. “Now do you think you could shut your mouth for five minutes? I need to check that wound and make sure you didn’t hurt yourself too badly.”
What’s it matter if I hurt myself? Why does he care at all what happens to me?
“You don’t need to check anything.”
“Saint—”
“No. I don’t want your help.” I press my back against the headboard, and lift my other hand to bat him away. It’s useless since he could easily overpower me if he wanted to but it’s the only way I can fight back. I don’t want his kindness. I don’t want anything to do with him. “You don’t get to hurt me, and then pretend you care about what happens to me.”
His jaw clenches. “Use your head. You’re bleeding.”
“Good. I don’t care.”
“Well I do.” And just like that, he’s on me. I try to scramble away but there’s nowhere to go, the chain jerks, stopping me, biting into my tender flesh.
“No! Don’t—” The protest dies when his hand closes around my wrist—the injured one. His grip is gentle despite his size, and it’s the touch of his warm calloused hand that makes every nerve ending in my body seize up. His fingers, the heat of his skin. It feels nice, and I hate it.
My pulse thrums against his fingers, frantic, and traitorous, revealing a truth I won’t say aloud. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Like a doctor, he examines the raw, bleeding skin with clinical interest. “This is going to get worse if you don’t stop pulling against the cuff.”