Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
I reminded myself that he sought me out. He came here. That meant he needed me, and Creighton wouldn’t have done this to hit on me. No. He’d do that when I was awake and could face him squarely on my own two feet. He’d probably make it some form of challenge to me, because he loved that sort of shit.
So messed up.
But, man. I cherished moments like this from the past. I shoved that away. I focused on the here and now, and right now, I didn’t have someone scary and dangerous in my bed. The outside world didn’t exist beyond this room. It was just the two of us.
I traced his fingers with my own, and asked, “What happened tonight?”
“They love like you do.”
“Who? What?”
He sounded disappointed and perplexed at the same time. Who . . .
It hit me. Was he talking about the heads of the West and Walden families?
But why?
I sucked in some oxygen, held it, repressing all the other bad feelings that swept into my body when we referenced that world. No. I didn’t want those feelings or thoughts in here. Not right now. Not this time.
I’d missed Eight. Weird attraction aside, I missed this version of him.
The image of him touching my neck flashed in my mind, how I could arch my neck for him. To give him better access—Really, Blake? I chided myself.
Creighton came to me. He was never vulnerable. He could be raw, but I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d been for him.
I really had missed him.
I kept tracing his hand.
I shouldn’t love that he was here. I knew I shouldn’t, because of what he could do in my name. My heart pounded.
I didn’t want him to leave.
I stifled a groan, lying here next to him because he wasn’t even only in my heart. He was behind my heart. He got in there at some point when I was eight years old, and I don’t think he’d ever left. This connection—whatever it was, I wouldn’t have it with anyone else.
I didn’t know if that was a beautiful thing or just bleak.
“Were you hoping they’d be like you?” Did that mean he was lonely somehow? Looking for others like him? But that wasn’t how it worked for someone who had his affliction. Was it? Maybe it wasn’t so black and white? Perhaps there was some gray in someone like Creighton.
I began tracing my fingers over the back of his hand.
“No.” He sighed. “I just thought maybe they were.”
“No one’s like you, Eight. No one understands you.”
“You do.”
I lifted my head. He was watching me intently. “You understand me.”
I don’t think I did understand him.
I looked away because I didn’t want to see if he was looking at me with those dead eyes or if they had an emotion, because sometimes, when he looked at me, there was emotion there. I thought I saw it tonight, but maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I just saw what I wanted to see, and that’s why he stopped me from turning the light on.
That was probably it.
I could think and think and think to infinity and still never have him figured out, so tonight, I wasn’t going to do anything. I wasn’t going to get mad he was here. I wasn’t going to be embarrassed either. Scooting down in the bed, I rolled to the other side.
He didn’t say anything more, one of his hands resting on my hip as he settled in behind me.
I didn’t let go of his other hand. I should’ve, but I didn’t.
Chapter Fifteen
Blake
He was gone in the morning.
He came back the next night, crawled in with me.
We didn’t talk. I rolled toward him, and he held my hand. I fell back asleep, and he was gone in the morning again. The third night was a repeat.
It kept happening.
I didn’t want it to stop happening.
Chapter Sixteen
Blake
The train screeched to a halt, and when the doors opened, not many got off. Instead, a whole slew of guys got on.
Over the years, I’d begun to recognize Creighton’s army. It wasn’t all guys. Girls joined as well, but he tended to use the girls for different jobs. They were recruiters. Scouters too. Girls got overlooked, so Creighton used that, utilized them in areas where he wanted them to be overlooked. Guys, though, they looked like these guys. Youngish. Always dressed to blend in. Some wore jeans. Some wore joggers. Sweatshirts. Baseball caps. They could be teenagers or thirty-year-olds. They took care of themselves. Kept themselves fit. Clean shaven (generally), and their hair was cut with a fade on the side and a little extra on the top.
Nothing to stick out.
Except their eyes.
If they came to Creighton without hardened eyes, they got them soon after. Then again, the type of guy or girl who would sign up to work for Creighton generally already had those eyes. Most came from the street.