Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
It wasn’t a dream.
That’s my first thought as I come to. Immediately followed by: I know this room. I’d know it anywhere, even though I only spent one night in it. This is where I started when I came here for the first time. In his room at the Grayson ranch. I also know I’m not alone. There’s someone else in the room with me. Someone who smells like the outdoors and tastes like lemonade.
Somehow, I’m more afraid to open my eyes than I was when I was stuck with my daddy. Or the man I thought was my daddy. Probably because I’m so eager to open them now and look at him when I should pace myself. I should err on the side of caution. This is the man I love who doesn’t love me back.
A broken heart is a lot more painful than broken bones.
So I take my time and slowly blink my eyes open. While it took my father some time to realize I was awake, it isn’t the case here. He already knew I was awake before I even opened my eyes because his own are locked on me and he’s sitting at the edge of his seat, every line on his face, every muscle in his body tight and on edge. The moment our eyes meet, I see him go even more on edge, sliding down the chair, fisting his hands on his thighs, the frown on his face deepening.
I try to get up then and realize it’s difficult. My elbows are shaking, and there’s a distinct soreness in my spine and in my chest. My head too. But when I see him springing up from his seat to come help me, I have no choice but to thrust my hand out, asking him to stop so I can push myself up to sitting on my own, without his help.
I don’t want him touching me.
He comes to an abrupt halt at my gesture, and I notice how his body strains with the effort. Like he has to physically stop himself from dashing over to me.
I lick my dry lips and ask, “Did you…”
I have to trail off because there’s a sharp pain in my throat as I try to speak. Probably because my father tried to choke me to death. Tears threaten my eyes then, but I somehow hold them at bay.
Although it becomes really difficult to do that when, suddenly, a glass of water appears in front of me and I hear him say, “You’re gonna have some soreness around your throat for a while. The doctor gave you a pain medication for that.” His jaw clenches for a second before he adds, “And for other injuries.”
I take the glass of water from him and take a sip. Even that is difficult. But water helps. At least my throat doesn’t feel on fire like it did a second ago. Besides, I’ve seen and suffered worse than this. My father never tried to kill me before, but he did once dislocate my shoulder. Something I’d forgotten about up until now; so if I survived that, I guess I’ll survive this too.
Although from the looks of it, Arsen might not.
Because after giving me the glass of water, he simply stands there, looking down at me, his hands fisted, his spine so straight that it must be painful, and his legs shoulder width apart. As if he’s ready to go into battle and is just waiting for a sign from me.
Not to mention, his face. I’ve been trying not to study it too closely, but I can see how tired it looks. There are more lines around his eyes and his mouth than there were this morning. And his eyes are red-rimmed and look sunken. Plus, his clothes, his hair, even his boots, everything looks messy and wrinkled, like they’ve been through a wringer. Well, he did come to save me—God, for the thousandth time—so maybe he did go through the wringer, but still.
Most of all, though, he looks… lost.
Like he’s determined to do something but doesn’t know what that something is. So I help him out.
“Can you…” I have to massage my throat a bit, and he looks ready to lose his shit with how harshly he starts to breathe. So I swallow very gently and whisper, “Can you sit down? Please? You’re… freaking me… out.”
His brow wrinkles more, but he immediately obeys. Like a wooden puppet he drops down onto the chair, his jaw pulsing rhythmically. God, why does he have to look so tortured right now? All miserable and awkward.
Agonized.
I lick my lips again and ask, “Did you… kill him?”
I don’t have to elaborate on who he is, because a violent expression passes through his face before he breathes out as if to calm himself. “No.”