Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I glance down the street in the direction where he disappeared, and the last of my denial shatters.
Heartbroken men don’t show up at apartment buildings and scream at doormen. They don’t ignore every boundary you set and blame you for their choices. And they sure as hell don’t throw punches when they don’t get their way.
A chill skates over my skin, colder than the wind off the lake.
Dakota isn’t devastated. And he isn’t just too intense or overly emotional.
For the first time, the reality of my situation sinks in.
Dakota isn’t heartbroken. He’s unhinged.
16
Knox
Motherfucker.
I really should’ve seen that coming. The second Dakota nodded and pretended to turn away, I should’ve known the little prick was about to do something stupid. Instead, I let my guard down for half a second, and now my vision pulses on the left side each time I blink.
That’s on me.
I straighten slowly, jaw locked, and blink through the sting. Chey stands in front of me with both hands over her mouth, wide eyes filled with horror.
“Oh my God.” The words come out shaky and thin.
And just like that, the adrenaline roaring through my veins shifts. I still want to go after him. My whole body strains in that direction, every instinct I have screaming to take off down the sidewalk, catch the bastard, and return the favor.
One good sprint, and I’d have him.
One solid punch, and we’d be even.
But I don’t move because Cheyenne is standing here looking scared as hell, and whatever satisfaction I might get from chasing him down isn’t worth leaving her alone for even a second.
Not now.
Not when I can see the exact moment it slams into her that this isn’t just some dramatic ex who can’t let go. This is something altogether different that has the potential to explode.
I glare at the corner he vanished around, my hands curling into fists before I force them open again.
“We should go inside,” she says, voice trembling. “You need ice before that turns black and blue.”
My gaze darts to Chey. Her face is pale beneath the flush from the run, and her breathing is a little too erratic. Her body is stiff, as if she lets go for even a second, she might come apart at the seams.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I mutter, because right now, getting her inside matters more than anything else.
The doorman stares at us, as if he’s unsure what to do.
I turn to him. “If you see that guy again, you call the police. Immediately.”
His eyes widen. “Yes, sir.”
Chey presses her lips together, but she doesn’t argue.
Good. I’m not in the mood to soften this or call it something it’s not just because the truth is uncomfortable.
We step into the lobby, and the blast of warmth does nothing to quell the uneasiness that clings to both of us. The elevator ride to my place is quiet except for the low mechanical hum and the faint ringing still bouncing around in my skull.
Cheyenne keeps sneaking peeks at me. I catch them in the mirrored panel. Each time, she quickly jerks her gaze away, as if she doesn’t want to get caught looking.
I don’t say anything. Mostly because I’m pissed at myself for allowing this to happen. The punch replays in my head on a vicious loop. Underneath that irritation is a deeper emotion. Every time I glance at Chey, I see the fear she tried to hide on the sidewalk. The way she froze when she spotted him, her body going rigid. The need to keep her close feels less like a choice and more like instinct. I’ll be damned if I allow anything to happen to her.
The elevator doors slide open, and I wait for her to step out before following as she moves through the penthouse to the kitchen.
“Sit down,” she orders.
There’s enough of an edge in her voice that I almost smile. Instead, I do as I’m told and drop into one of the kitchen chairs while she grabs a dish towel from the drawer, crosses to the freezer, and fills a bag with ice. Her movements are efficient, but I notice the small things. The faint tremor in her fingers when she presses the zipper on the bag shut, or the way she draws in a steady breath before turning back to me. She’s doing everything she can to be strong in order to get through this moment.
When Chey steps between my knees, every thought in my head short-circuits. She’s close enough for me to feel the heat of her body. Close enough for me to catch the clean scent of soap and sweat along with the faintest trace of her shampoo. Close enough that if I shifted forward even an inch, my face would brush the soft fabric stretched over her chest.
She lifts the ice to my eye, and I hiss at the contact.