Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
But he wouldn’t get it.
So I say what he’ll get in my deadpan voice. “You asked what I was diagnosed with. I’ll tell you. I’m diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder. Some narcissistic traits. A dash of bipolar. And—oh—occasionally psychotic hallucinations. Congratulations. You’re fucking a walking DSM.”
I remain still, waiting for the ball to drop, for Marcus to retreat or at least have that disturbed or pitiful look people wear when they see me.
Fuck you, brain, for ruining it with your stupid defense mechanism. Couldn’t let me fuck him a few more times?
Nope, my brain says to my other brain. You’re getting too close. It’s dangerous.
Right.
That’s why we’re in the process of making them all hate me or be disgusted with me until no one’s left.
Got it, self-destructive king.
Maybe at that point, when there’s no one left, I’ll finally grow some balls and drop dead.
Marcus’s fingers are still palming my cheek, his expression unchanged. “And?”
“And?” I ask incredulously, then repeat in a louder voice, “And? I just told you I’m crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. Your brain’s just wired different.”
My chin trembles, but I purse my lips. “Yeah. Different in a way that I kill people just to feel good.”
“…Okay.”
“What the fuck type of reaction is that?” I push him away because his touch is muddying my brain. “I told you I murder people for fun, and you just say okay?”
He lifts a shoulder. “If someone hurt someone I love, I’d kill, too.”
I let my upper lip lift in a snarl, my brain going the extra mile to make Marcus hate the shit out of me. “I don’t hurt them because they hurt people I love. I hurt them for me. For the rush. For the brief calm that follows. To feel fucking alive. You don’t find that disgusting?”
“Different strokes, fairy prince.”
“Stop pretending it’s normal.”
“Who said anything about normal? Neither of us is, and truly, I don’t give a fuck that you kill. Survive any way you can. That’s what’s important. If you have to paint the world red for it, so be it.”
My whole body is shivering now. “I doubt you’d say the same if I sliced someone’s throat before your eyes.”
“I’d probably find it hot if you killed for me.”
My lips part before I purse them again. “You really are sick.”
“Which is why we’re compatible, don’t you think?”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Would you kill for me?”
“Yes.”
He says the word without hesitation, as if it’s a given.
I blink. Something warm and horrifying tugs low in my chest.
Is that supposed to make my heart skip a beat?
Why is my heart skipping a fucking beat?
“And you, Preston?” Marcus grabs my jaw, yanking me toward him. “Would you live for me?”
“Stop joking around—”
“I’m not. I own you, remember? And since you’re mine, I’m telling you to live for me.”
I swallow thickly but don’t say anything.
I can’t.
My throat is so clogged with emotions, I feel like I’ll start wheezing.
“I’m going to need you to promise,” he says in a nonnegotiable tone.
“F-fine.” I bite my tongue and try to push him away, because why the fuck am I stuttering?
“Come here.” Marcus wraps an arm around me tighter, pulling me down with him, dragging me into the warmth of his chest.
I don’t argue, don’t fight, just let him place my head on his shoulder as his muscular arms envelop me.
This time, he’s hugging me from the front, his chin resting on the top of my head. “Sleep. I’ll be right here.”
Maybe it’s because I’m tired or just need to crash properly after days of insomnia, maybe it’s the feel of Marcus’s embrace or his smell or his breaths.
Maybe it’s everything.
But I slide my arms tightly around his middle, and for the first time in my life, I close my eyes, burrowing my head against someone’s heartbeat instead of my own demons.
This will end badly.
But just for now, I don’t give a fuck.
30
MARCUS
When I was young, Mom and the grown-ups always marveled at how intelligent and mature I was.
Collected. Drama-free. An adult in a child’s body.
Those are some of the terms they used.
Not sure how it started or why. Mom once mentioned that I was like my father in a sense. She said “smart” so as not to say “cold.”
But I guess I am my father’s son in that way.
I like my ability to find solutions to problems by spotting patterns and dealing with the source of the issue. It’s how I function, fix cars, and play hockey.
It’s what makes me who I am.
However, I’m having a slight hiccup with this lethal man who’s draped all over me.
It’s morning now, and Preston’s arms are still wrapped around my waist in a prison-like grip, his head buried in the slope of my neck, and his leg thrown over mine.
He had a nightmare a couple of hours ago, shaking uncontrollably and mumbling words like, Don’t…, Mommy…, and Daddy…