Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
If I go away, he’ll be rid of me, and that’s just not on the menu.
“Just to pacify things,” Jethro insists. “It’s getting out of hand fast. Simone and I are straining to hold it together.”
“I said. No.”
“Is it because of the kid?” He pauses, and when I don’t reply, he speaks low. “Jesus Christ. Who the hell are you and what have you done with the Kayden I know?”
I hang up so he’ll stop blabbering in my ear.
But also because I have no answer to his last question. Jethro, of all people, would notice the change, but the truth remains, I have no clue what the fuck is happening to me.
Except that I lose any semblance of control at the sight of bright, expressive green eyes.
I’ve quit trying to explain it even to myself, stopped being all-consumed in my thoughts, and chose to just feel.
For the first time in a long time, I feel alive.
I’m here.
Breathing properly.
I’ll think about everything else later.
The archery range reception has only one staff member. A middle-aged woman with gold-framed glasses eagerly lets me buy a one-day pass and keeps talking about their monthly and yearly memberships, which I cut short. Because I’m not here to talk to her.
After she gives a quick explanation about the facilities and shows me to the locker room, she finally leaves me alone.
I shrug off my coat at record speed and take one of the rental bow and arrows as if I have a clue about archery.
In reality, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have asked Jethro to track Gareth down either, but he was pushing it.
He’s been ignoring me for three days, and while that amount was tolerable in the past, now it’s no different than walking around with one lung. It’s suffocating, and I can’t breathe properly.
All the toxins are gathering in my one lung and causing pressure in my chest.
When I tried to text him, he was elusive.
Me
I’ll be home by seven. How about you?
Little Monster
Won’t be coming.
Why?
Because.
Can you elaborate on the reason for this episode?
You should ask yourself.
What have I done?
Something annoying af.
Full words, Carson.
Something annoying AS FUCK.
Language. And what is this annoying thing?
I can’t read your mind so if you don’t tell me, I won’t know.
Carson. If you don’t reply, there will be dire consequences. I will put you on my knee and punish you, are we clear?
He didn’t reply to any of my last texts and he didn’t come over either. He knows I can’t just go knocking on the door of the mansion he shares with his friends. Or grab him by the arm on campus, bend him over on my desk, and fuck him.
Though I did fantasize about that countless times, but it’s too risky. Being a popular professor in college is infuriating because my office is always full of students and other professors.
And while I don’t give a damn about my position, Gareth is a genius student and I don’t want to sabotage his studies.
Fucking ironic, really.
So I tried bribing him with pictures of ripe strawberries, telling him Mom sent them over for him—though, really, I asked her to.
Tonight, I sent him a picture of the package of strawberry-flavored hot chocolate I scoured the internet for since he loves everything with strawberries, but he didn’t see it. And when I called his phone, he didn’t reply. That’s when I asked Jethro for help, and he sent me this location.
I walk into the indoor range, where two other men are practicing, but there’s no trace of Gareth.
He couldn’t have possibly been on the outside range in this fucking weather—
Sure enough, when I storm out, he’s right there, standing under the pouring rain, pulling an arrow against the string. His muscles flex beneath his soaked T-shirt, and the faint outline of the crossed arrows tattooed on the underside of his arm peeks through.
He’s drenched, water clinging to his hair and cascading in rivulets down his pale neck.
Like a piece of art, his body aligns in perfect, almost geometric precision as he pulls back and releases the arrow.
Bullseye.
I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.
He doesn’t stop. Another arrow, then another, each one hitting its mark with mechanical consistency. Rain streams down his face, dripping off his jaw, but he’s completely unbothered.
I, however, am not.
Because he’ll get fucking sick.
I stride toward him, rain soaking me to the bone. As I approach, he turns in my direction, an arrow nocked and aimed at me. His eyes narrow as recognition sets in.
There’s something turbulent in his gaze, the color not quite right. And what does it say about me that I can read his mood in a single glance?
Too fucking far gone, probably.
Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot me like he did during the initiation.
But instead, he lowers the bow and focuses back on the target. “Picked up archery just to stalk me?”