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)
“Deal. At least you know I won't be able to run.”
I press my lips together, wanting to tell him to fuck himself again, but I'm confident he'll turn that into an innuendo.
After breakfast, he helps me outside. Not because I need help, but because he seems unable to stop himself from touching me.
I don’t have to like him to enjoy the feel of his hand on my lower back, his fingers wrapped around my elbow. Each point of contact burns, as if he's straight from hell, branding me.
The porch overlooks the dense forest. Trees everywhere. No neighbors, no visible roads. We could be the last two people on earth and never know it.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” He settles into a rocking chair nearby—close enough to grab me if I run, not that I could, but far enough to give me the illusion of space.
“It's very isolated. Does that make it beautiful?”
He pulls a piece of wood from a basket sitting next to him, reaches into his pocket, and flips open a blade. “No one here to judge. No one to pretend for.”
And he starts whittling. I watch, fascinated, as the wood curls around the blade and falls to his lap. It's meditative. I wonder what he's carving.
“Is that what you think I'm doing? Pretending?”
“Aren't you?” He turns the wood over and smooths it with the back of the knife. “Playing the dutiful fiancée for a man you don't love. Smiling through dinners with a mother who manipulates you. Pretending to be happy when I can see the sadness in your eyes from across the fucking street.”
Why does the accuracy of it all make my breath hitch? How does he see so clearly what I haven't even admitted to myself?
Goddamn him.
“You don't know me,” I protest, but it sounds weak.
“I know you better than anyone.” There's no arrogance in it, just certainty. “I know you cry during sad films but pretend you don't. I know you wear your nonna’s ring on a chain around your neck because it doesn't fit your finger anymore. Every time you touch it, you look like you're praying.”
My hand goes to my throat, finding the chain, the warm metal of Nonna's ring. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“I know you're unhappy,” he says, softer now. “You have been for a while. And you're too kind, too good to admit it. Because admitting it would mean letting people down.”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because it's none of your business.”
I stand up too fast and forget about my ankle. Pain shoots through it, and I stumble. He catches me before I fall, pulling me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm. For a terrible moment, I want to stay there. I want to turn my face into his neck and breathe him in. Burrow into him. Feel his strength and comfort around me.
“Easy, love.” His hand is in my hair, and he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. Something in me dissolves.
“I've got you.”
“I don't want you to have me.”
But I'm not pulling away. Why not?
“Liar.”
His hand slides up my spine, and I shiver—not from cold or fear.
“This isn't real,” I whisper. “You're just fucking around with my head or whatever.”
“Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night, lass.” His lips brush my temple, barely a touch. “We both know you felt something. We both know exactly how you feel. We both know that you've never thought about Marcus fucking Crowning the way you think about me.”
Oh my god. So not only has he spied on me, but now he's found a way to read my mind too?
Except… to his fucking credit, it’s true. Of course there's an electric current, as if my body knows him even if my mind doesn't.
I know without needing any details that Ashland will do things to me that Marcus wouldn't dream of.
But is that… right? Good?
“I need you to let me go,” I protest, but my protests sound weak even to my own ears.
“Another lie.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the longing in his eyes is so raw it hurts to see.
“You're fucking delusional.”
“Am I?” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Then why is your pulse racing? Why are you leaning into my touch instead of pulling away? Why are you looking at me every time I look up?”
I don't respond. Maybe I'm broken. Maybe I'm tired of pretending. Because for the first time in my life, I feel like someone actually sees me and wants me anyway. And it scares the goddamn shite out of me.
“Let me go,” I whisper, but there's no conviction left.
“No.” He releases me anyway, then steps back. The loss of warmth makes me ache. “I'll give you space for now though.”
He doesn't say anything else.
He turns to the door, and panic flares in my chest.