Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
I think it was that broken look on her face while we waited, the panic I could feel in her pulse.
No, I shouldn’t have grabbed her hand either. Absolutely shouldn’t have tried to rub some strength into her, fighting my inner caveman urge to whisk this fragile, worried girl away that second.
It wasn’t supposed to be so hard to trust her and her decisions, when that’s what I swore to do.
This is far from my normal.
When you work a life in security, you get good at balance. The right attitude at the right time while everybody else is flipping their shit.
Doing their dirty laundry without complaint.
Pulling your boss out of the way, protecting them from potential harm and themselves.
Doing it discreetly so no one knows.
Only, Nile still brings out the worst in me. Every bad instinct to protect her like she’s still a little girl and do it like a fucking overbearing moose.
Yes, she’s mad.
I feel the arctic chill when we’re in the same room.
That’s one thing that’s changed. When she was a kid, it was easier.
I always had more to do, other places to be, and it didn’t matter if a teenager sulked. The house was big enough for both of us and we’d go back to our neat, separate worlds after butting heads.
But here, there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do except pace this damn bedroom instead of working on my laptop.
My job begins and ends with securing Cleo and the egg.
If it didn’t, I’d be outside right now, stalking the streets. It’s still chilly this time of year, that crisp bite in the air after dark.
A walk would calm my head, far more than the breeze wafting through this window.
New York City is an endless maze and a man can walk to his heart’s content. Only, I’m trapped with my frustrations. My duty to guard what’s in this condo with life and limb.
I stop pacing long enough to listen, pressing my ear against the door.
For the past few hours since I retreated in here, I’ve heard her scribbling furiously on her sketch pad. There it is again, loud enough to picture her nimble fingers working. Probably drawing some masterpiece where I have horns and a tail.
I snort and rip myself away.
Back to pacing.
Despite being roomy, the master bedroom isn’t big enough to do this comfortably, but I still continue, wondering if I’ll wear a hole in the fancy carpet.
Shit, now I know how a bear feels caged up in a zoo.
I want to burn this off. Pump some iron. Go for a run, ignoring the hellfire in my knees. Anything to work this off and clear my mind.
I pivot too quickly when I turn and my knee stings.
Yeah, so much for that run.
I’m too young for my own body to sabotage me like this.
Another good goddamn reason to bridge careers and find something less demanding the minute this fuckery ends.
If it ever does.
I last another half hour, walking slower, working through the deafening ache until it fades, before my patience thins.
Finally, when I can’t stand it, I tear the door open and stomp out.
She’s not drawing anymore. She’s lying flat with her legs kicked over the back of the sofa, awkwardly twisted on top of a couple pillows.
My eyes flick to her ankle. I’m glad it isn’t swollen.
I stand and listen for her soft breathing, not quite a snore, wondering if she’ll pop up and give me another shitty look I probably deserve.
Not now. She’s out cold.
Fuck me.
The tension drains from my shoulders. At least she’ll hold off on harpooning me for barking shit at Fairfax tonight.
I step closer, silent as the grave.
Nile’s actually peaceful when she sleeps.
The little tornado, gone.
No anxiety on her soft face. That bleached stripe in her hair gives her an angelic look.
A sad expression curdles her face, and she twists, adjusting herself on the sofa hopelessly. There’s no way she’ll ever be comfortable on this thing.
It’s one of those chic modern fabrics, fine to sit on, but prone to catching if you move too much.
Not a place to sleep.
Let alone a place to be watched by an older damn creeper.
I sigh.
Leonidas loved his aesthetics, and it didn’t always translate to comfort. She’s not going to get any decent rest like that. And after the spill she took leaving, she’ll wind up with a nasty crick in her neck.
Dammit, no.
I walk closer and notice her sketch pad lying open beside her. On the page, there’s a detailed sketch of her holding the Hera Egg, looking hopeful. It’s sectioned off into a square panel, almost like a cartoon.
Her detail makes my breath stall, right down to the neat rows of sparkling diamonds and the stripe folded through her hair.
Behind her, a very obvious, large, scowling shadow, rippling with dark lines like a storm cloud.