Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I click send. It was ten thousand times nicer than the fuckin' arsehole deserves.
I stare at the phone for a moment, fighting the urge to block his goddamn name from her phone. Fighting the urge to scroll through her photos, to look at her notes, to view all the private bits of her life I haven't seen yet. It'd be so easy, and she'd never know… but I would.
But this is a line, however blurred it's become, that I won't cross. Not yet, anyway.
I set her phone back down and power it off. Then I grab mine from the charging cable by the window.
Shite.
Three missed calls from Seamus. I scroll through the messages.
Seamus
Where the fuck are you? Need you at the meeting tomorrow at ten sharp. Don't forget this time, yeah?
Tomorrow? Fuck. I'd completely forgotten about the goddamn meeting tomorrow. Our cousins Colm and Daire have gone overseas doing what Seamus says is “research.” Seamus’s brother Torin is still in prison, and I know Seamus is trying to maintain control.
I type back quickly.
I'll be there.
His response comes almost immediately. He's probably at the pub with the lads.
Seamus
You better. Everyone's asking questions about where you've been.
I type back.
Tell them to mind their own fucking business.
Seamus’s response is immediate.
Seamus
Just be there tomorrow. Whatever you're doing, don't bring it back to the family. Clear?
Clear.
I pocket the phone and scrub my hand over my face. Tomorrow. That means I'll have to leave her here alone for a few hours. The thought makes my chest tight. I can't take her with me—it’s too fucking dangerous—but I don't want to leave her here unguarded…
I'll have to lock the doors and secure the windows. She'll be safe. She has to be.
I grab a blanket and pillows from the sofa and head back down the hallway. I pause outside her door and listen. Nothing. Maybe she's asleep. Maybe she's lying there, trying to plot her escape.
I open the door as quietly as I can. The lamp is still on, and she’s in the bed, dressed in the pajamas I brought her—thin white cotton that clings to her curves, the neckline sliding off one shoulder. Her hair is plaited over one bare shoulder, dark against her pale skin. Her hands are tucked under her face.
My god, she's so fucking beautiful.
She's curled on her side, facing away from me, and even from here I can see the line of her body under the blankets. The dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. Her breathing's too controlled to be asleep.
“I know you're awake,” I say softly.
Why'd I say that? Why?
She doesn't respond. With a sigh, I spread the blanket on the floor near the door and set the pillows down, then lower myself onto it with a grunt. It's not comfortable, but I've slept on worse.
“Goodnight, Bianca,” I whisper into the darkness.
Still nothing. But after a few minutes, I hear her breathing change just slightly. I don't know if it's my imagination or if I just fancy it, but I like the fact that she's calmer when I'm with her, as if she's finally allowing herself to sleep, now that I'm in the room with her.
Maybe she's starting to believe me. Maybe she actually does see that this is the way. That she has to trust me.
Maybe it’s just in my head.
I stay on the floor with one eye on the door, one ear listening for her. And I don't sleep, not a wink.
Hours crawl by. I count her breaths. One hundred forty-seven before her body finally relaxes into deep sleep. One hundred sixty-two when the cat starts purring.
I guess Lancelot's a bed cat, after all.
It’s fucking torture on this floor, and not because it's hard as flint. It's torture because she's right there.
So close I can hear every small sound she makes.
So close I can smell that sweet vanilla scent.
So close I can hear the rustle of the sheets when she shifts. The catch in her breath when she dreams. The soft sigh that escapes her lips around three in the morning, breathy and low, and Christ, I have to close my eyes and think of anything else.
What does she dream about? If she dreams about me, I'm a monster in those dreams, not the man who wants to crawl into bed beside her, pull her against my chest, and feel her body pressed to mine. Not the man who's imagined a thousand times what it would be like to kiss her until she melts for me.
I swallow hard and punch the pillow.
Around four, Lancelot pads down from the bed and prowls over to me, his yellow eyes glowing in the dark. He stares at my face for a long moment, then settles onto my chest like we're best friends.
“Traitor,” I whisper, but I don't push him off. His presence is somehow comforting, and the purring helps to quiet my thoughts. I run my hand reluctantly over his fur. It's soft and well cared for, like everything else about Bianca's life.