Total pages in book: 260
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
She’ll heal me, and I’ll heal her. I swear I will.
I just have to be careful. My little bird is so easily broken.
My eyes snap open and I tell her, “You need to listen to me, Robin.” My voice gets tight. “Even if you don’t forgive me. Even if you want to leave me, you must listen.”
Robin rises, propping herself up on her elbow and coming closer to me, holding me and lifting my chin so I’ll look her in the eyes.
She shakes her head slightly, and I almost lose it. The anger is so close to the surface. It’s always there, brimming just beneath my skin. “I forgive you,” she whispers and keeps my gaze. “You never had to be sorry,” she says but chokes on her words and with that I reach my arm up and pull her closer to me. She hangs her head low and I shush her again.
I rock her gently, thinking about how she looks at me like I can do no wrong. Like I’m broken and in need of fixing.
The thought used to make me hate her. I fucking hated being stuck with someone who gave me so much sympathy. I hated her for leaving. I hated how she had a normal life. How she wasn’t fucked in the head like I was.
It wasn’t until the sleeping pills that I realized. It wasn’t until I heard her whispering my name in her sleep that I knew I had to take her back.
It was then that I saw things so clearly.
“Shh, Robin,” I whisper as I rock her. “It’s okay,” I tell her even though I know it’s not in the least.
Nothing is okay. Far from it.
Chapter 10
Robin
I’ve never been a good sleeper. Not that I can remember, anyway. My mother told me that I used to sleep like the dead. Once I fell from the sofa and my father grabbed me by the ankle and kept me from hitting my head. I just dangled there, fast asleep and completely unaware.
Of course that all changed when I was taken.
It’s been years since I’ve fallen into a deep sleep and felt rested. Years since I’ve felt safe and able to sleep at ease.
Yet while I held Jay and let him hold me, it was so easy. So easy to drift into sleep. Maybe it’s the drugs or the exhaustion… or maybe the weight of the guilt settling.
Only the guilty sleep in prison, and that’s quite like what this is. I deserve to be here, because it’s my job to heal him. I know it with everything in me.
He’s broken because of me.
I roll slightly, feeling Jay's warmth cocoon me and slowly bring my hand to his chest. I never touched him back then, since he didn’t like it. He’d always wake up, and I didn’t want that. He needed rest more than I did. His gray Henley is unbuttoned at the top, and his broad muscular shoulders make the thin fabric pull tight.
I love his eyes; I always have even as they haunted me, but with them closed now I can focus on the small details of his face. How thick his lashes are, the rough stubble along his sharp jaw. The way his hair is short, but long enough to be messy.
A sad smile slips across my lips as I rest my fingers against his chest.
I wish I hadn’t though, because he wakes instantly, gripping my wrist and making me gasp. His eyes pop open and the pale gray swirls in his eyes are full of emotion. He swallows visibly and with unease before letting go of my wrist.
He blinks the sleep from his eyes and turns to look over his shoulder, the bed creaking as he looks at the door and then back to me.
He wraps his heavy arm around me, pulling me closer to him so my body touches his and then shuts his eyes as if he’s going back to sleep.
“Jay?” I whisper his name. I don’t know what time it is, but it must be very early or very late.
“Robin,” he says my name low, the deep rumble of his voice making the word linger between us.
“Let me touch you?” I try to be strong in my words, but they’re weak. I’ve always been weak for him.
He stays still, but the moment I reach forward he grabs my wrist out of instinct. His blunt nails dig into my wrist. My breathing stalls and I stare at where he holds me, giving him a moment. “You want me here to help you,” I finally say and look up into his eyes. He’s staring at my wrist as well, at his fingers curled and gripping with a force that’s unbreakable. I can feel the blood pulsing; his grip is so tight.
I swallow and add, “You need to let me do whatever I can to help you.” My voice quivers, and I have to look away. It’s selfish of me. So fucking selfish. I want to touch him, simply because I want to. So many nights he’s held me. He’s let me rest my cheek against his shoulder, and my lips have even rested against his chest. But never my hands. My hands need to be down.