Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“I’m not a victim.” Despite my best efforts, there was a very slight rasp to my voice. “I made my bed.” I let out an ugly laugh that hurt to produce. I thought of one thousand-dollar sheets stained with my blood and tears.
I walked to his kitchen, putting the breakfast bar between us because I needed a barrier of some kind.
“I deserved what I got.” I dragged my palm along the edge of the island. “No woman deserves assault on the basis of anything from her clothing, sexual promiscuity, drinks consumed, etcetera. But I think it gets a little gray when the woman in question was making millions from the subjugation of thousands of others, from their deaths, their pain.” I said all of this without wincing, without the shame that I’d accepted I’d never wash off. I deserved to live with that. Just like I had deserved that assault. To shock me out of my greed, to admit who I had been dealing with. Who I had become.
To his credit, Elliot had kept a rather placid look on his usually expressive face, yet it was now contorted in horror.
A little delayed but appropriate given what I told him. He should’ve been looking at me that way, given what I’d told him. It was what I’d intended, I told myself through the cracking agony piercing my chest cavity.
My middle finger throbbed, the one that had been dislocated that day, my mouth again filling with the taste of iron. I ignored both.
“You think you deserved that?” Elliot choked out, the words dripping with pain.
I nodded slowly. “There are consequences to actions, Elliot. I am no damsel in distress here. I was colluding with the villains. I was not innocent.”
Elliot felt miles away, standing across the island from me. The cold stone of the counter prevented me from falling into Elliot’s touch which would turn me into the person I was when in his arms. I needed to be the Calliope I was in New York. Strong. Unfeeling.
He’d respected the distance I’d created like he always respected my boundaries—one of the sexiest things about him, though that list was incredibly long.
The crash of the barstool flying into the wall didn’t make me jump. I’d trained my nervous system not to outwardly react to unexpected sounds or actions made by unstable men. The men I dealt with thrived off a flinch, a whimper, a widening of the eyes.
But I was sufficiently shocked to see such an outward, aggressive response from Elliot. He was always so level-headed and calm, not violent.
I felt it, radiating from him. Fury, furniture hurling notwithstanding. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched, chest rising and falling with his heavy breathing, shaking as he stared at the hole in the wall he’d created.
I stared at it too.
A tense few moments of silence reigned.
He’d rendered me speechless. A worthy feat. Though I wasn’t bothered with trying to produce words. I needed them from him. To know what was going on in his brain. To hear how much he hated me.
“I’ll repair that.” He was still facing the wall, so I assumed that he was speaking about that and not the wreckage in my mind.
Stood to reason as he couldn’t know about the wreckage in my mind, a good thing too since it could never be repaired. I’d made my peace with that and had gotten really good at pretending my broken pieces didn’t exist.
“No need,” I cleared my throat. “I know a guy.”
“You do know a guy,” Elliot nodded. “Your guy. I fix what I break, Calliope. And I apologize for breaking that in the first place. I shouldn’t have…” He didn’t finish the sentence, running his hands through his curls.
I watched his hands travel, clasping the back of his neck for a few seconds before he unfurled, standing at his full height, turning to stare at me.
Then he rounded the counter, stalking toward me with purpose. I mentally braced for his touch, but he fell short, hesitating. Elliot never hesitated.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” he asked softly.
My insides roiled. There it was. I was damaged to him now. The rape victim who had to be treated with care because another man had taken what should’ve only been given.
Fuck, I hated that. How gentle, how thoughtful and kind Elliot was. The kind of man he was. I knew I’d never be able to ignore my broken pieces, not with him. Because he fixed what he broke, and I saw in his eyes that he’d make it his duty to fix what he didn’t break.
“Of course, you can fucking touch me,” I snapped, refusing to sound soft or weak.
Elliot’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile, his expression still grim. His hands latched onto my hips, thankfully not gently. The pressure was biting as he lifted me onto the counter, my legs instinctively spreading for him.