Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” I whimper as I wipe my mouth.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says as he pulls back the covers and swiftly scoops me into his arms. His sea breeze-scented cologne hits my nose, but it’s overpowered by the smell of my vomit on his shirt. He carries me into the bathroom and places me gently beside the toilet, where I’m quick to vomit again, clinging to the bowl.
I hear water running, but before I can lift my head to look, I’m throwing up again with slight relief that at least it’s in a toilet and not all over a six-foot-two mountain of a man.
He brushes back my hair, and just when I think I have nothing left to throw up, I’m heaving again. I wish I hadn’t drunk that water, even though at the time, it was the best water I’d ever tasted.
When my vomiting eases, he slowly unzips my dress. I don’t even bother pushing him away because I know, for once in his life, he isn’t trying to fuck me. I feel like a rag doll as he reaches under my arms and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. Other men struggle to lift me, while Hawke does it so effortlessly. He holds me up with one hand and slides the dress off so I’m only in my underwear.
My head feels like it’s bobbing from side to side, and the room seems unbearably hot.
He proceeds to take off my underwear and then carries me toward a claw-footed tub where the water is running. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and if I had the strength to open my eyes all the way, they would bug out of my head at the sight of me. There’s dried vomit on my cheek, my hair is a disaster, and I’m pale yet flushed. I look like death warmed over, and honestly, I don’t even recognize myself right now.
He lowers me into the bath, and the water, though only coming up to my waist feels like heaven, relaxing me almost instantly. “Don’t drown yourself,” he says, then turns to the sink. He grabs his toothbrush and puts toothpaste on it.
His actions seem automatic. As if he’s done this a million times before.
He holds out the toothbrush, and I take it from him, my arms feeling like Jell-O. I brush my teeth and scrub my tongue, and when I’m done, I hand it back to him and watch as he throws it in the trash.
I’m freaked out about the blank spots in my mind, and if it weren’t for Hawke, I might’ve actually spiraled and lost my shit. I’m a level-headed woman, but this is a woman’s worst nightmare. What-if scenarios race through my brain, and I immediately shut them out. No. That didn’t happen. If I’m with Hawke, that means I’m safe.
Hawke grabs a bottle of body wash and places it on the edge of the tub. “Give me your hands,” he gently orders. I do as he says, fascinated by this side of him. It’s like seeing him as a completely different person.
“How do you know what to do?” I ask. My voice comes out in a rasp, and I can tell the sound of it grates on him. For such a big guy, he looks so small right now. I’m not yet ready to ask him what state he found me in. I’m too scared of the answer.
“My mother was a drug addict. The memories I remember most are of putting her to bed and making sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit in her sleep. Cleaning her up became second nature,” he says matter-of-factly.
My heart breaks as I imagine Hawke as a child. It’s so strange to think of him as anything but this giant. I’d heard they’d lived on the streets before Anya adopted them, and although I’ve been tempted to dive into Ford’s and his history, I’ve always refrained from doing so. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me himself.
“What happened to her?” I ask. I can’t even imagine living in a home like that. I almost feel guilty for having the parents and upbringing I did.
He looks at me then as if realizing I’m curious about him. He silently requests my other hand. I give it to him, and he cleans it just as gently as he did the first one. “You don’t have to ever be shy to ask me questions, Ivy. I’m an open book,” he says as he leans over to put the cloth in the water and run it over my skin. “She overdosed when we were twelve. We didn’t have any other family to go to, and we have no idea who the fuck our dad is, so Ford and I lived on the streets.