Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“How long will it take?” Ambrose asked quietly.
“You know I can’t answer that,” Alice chided. “But I don’t think it will be long. A week, perhaps?”
“How will I know?” I joked. “Is someone else going to shoot me?”
“Don’t say that,” Ambrose snapped.
I looked at him in surprise and accidentally got a good view of my arms. They were covered in fresh pink scars. Four on each arm were oddly uniform. Some of the others were still scabbed over. Near my elbow, a row of six neat stitches ran in a straight line.
“Shit.”
“That’s what you get when you go wrestling around in glass,” Alice said.
My stomach pitched again, and I pushed that memory away.
“Stitches on your arm can come out today,” she announced. “I want the ones on your legs to stay another day, maybe two.”
As she stood, I looked down at my legs. There were stitches along the inside of my thigh, a few inches above my knee, and another set low on my ankle, almost on the top of my foot.
As she pulled a little cart closer to the bed, I went somewhere else in my head. I stared at the gray sink in the corner, watching as a little bead of water lost its grip and ran slowly down the inside edge. Then another and another.
“All done,” Ambrose whispered in my ear, kissing the spot below it softly.
Alice put smaller bandages over my stitches to keep them dry, but left the rest of my healing cuts uncovered.
“You’ll do,” she said, pausing with her hands full of wrappers. She searched my face.
“Thank you,” I rasped. I wasn’t sure what she was looking for. I wasn’t even sure how I felt. Everything felt just slightly out of focus.
“Let’s get some lunch,” Ambrose said as he helped me pull the sweatpants back on. “Want me to bring you something, Alice?”
“I’d appreciate it,” Alice replied as she walked to the trash can.
I tried not to look at my arms as we left, but it was nearly impossible. The scars were everywhere. I’d never be able to hide them without wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Vanity had never been one of my vices. I looked like what I looked like—it was the reminder that I dreaded never being able to escape. I’d remember that heinous night every time I got a look at my own skin.
“I don’t want bone broth, Erik,” Matilda snapped just as we reached the kitchen. “I want a piece of toasted bread with burrata, tomatoes, pesto, and basil on top.”
“I told you she was angry,” Ambrose said jokingly as we rounded the counter.
I froze.
Matilda stood in the center of the kitchen with my brother and Erik, wearing some kind of classy blue silk robe. Her hair was pulled into a loose French braid, and she didn’t have any makeup on.
She looked completely fine. Healthy, even.
Visions of her hand pressing against her dress as blood crept out from behind it battered me. The sound was first, she’d dropped the shotgun, and then seconds later the thud when she’d fallen onto the hardwood floor. The sight of the soles of her bare feet lying askew as I’d shifted and wrenched on that man’s neck.
I couldn’t stop them. They played in a loop. I jerked, trying to distinguish between what was happening in the present and what had happened before.
“Lucy,” she called, hurrying across the kitchen. “There’s my girl.”
Before I could brace for it, she’d wrapped her arms around me, her head going to my shoulder. I lifted my hands and patted her gingerly on the back. After a moment, I began to hug her back.
“You had us worried,” she said quietly, her hand smoothing down my ponytail.
“I did?” I choked out. I swallowed against the urge to cry.
“You’ve been asleep so long,” she replied as she pulled away. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
Was I feeling better? I didn’t remember feeling bad in the first place. I didn’t even remember when I’d lost consciousness, but I must’ve at some point because eventually, I woke up.
“Come eat,” Erik said gruffly.
“I’m not hungry,” I replied, looking over at Matilda.
She grinned. “You’re sweet,” she said. “But you haven’t had anything in days. You need to have something, even if it’s small. I’ll stop complaining and be a good girl.”
Erik made a noise, and when I looked at him, he was gazing at his mate in a way I hoped I never saw again. No one’s parents should go around throwing those kinds of looks at each other.
I planted myself on a stool next to Charlie at the counter while Ambrose went over to make me a plate.
“Do they hurt?” he asked quietly, looking at my arms.
“Not really,” I replied, dropping them to my lap under the lip of the counter.
“They’ll fade,” he murmured sympathetically.
“It doesn’t matter.”