Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Three days later, she talks to me directly for the first time.
“Why did you leave me?”
Her words hit like a freight train. We’ve been out here for an hour with the ambience of the flowing stream and chirping birds. She’s been colouring in silence while I’ve pretended to read.
I close my book, buying time to figure out how to answer. How do you explain to a five-year-old that at the time, you thought you couldn't keep her, that you thought she'd have a better life without you?
You don't.
“I didn't want to.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “I wanted to keep you so badly, but I was very young, and I thought... I thought you'd be better with someone else.”
“Was I?” Those green eyes—my eyes—pin me in place. “Safe?”
The words 'not from him’ stick in my throat, too heavy to force out.
“You are now.” I reach out slowly, instincts taking over. When she doesn't pull away, I brush a strand of hair behind her ear and blow out a slow, steady breath. “And I'm never leaving you again. I promise.”
She flicks the colouring pencil between her fingers. “Promises break.”
“Some do.” I won't lie to her. “But this one won't. You want to know why?”
She nods, wary but listening.
“Because Hella's scarier than anything in the world, and he promised to help me keep you safe. And Hella doesn't break his promises.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “He's not that scary.”
“No?” I lean in, eyes narrowed. “You should see him when someone takes something that's his.”
She giggles—actually fucking giggles—and the sound hits me wrong. Too clean. Too innocent for this place.
Hella walks through the front door with a tray of sandwiches, stopping when he sees us. His eyes track the space between us, how she hasn't backed away, and his face goes soft for half a second.
“Food's ready.” He drops the tray on the table. “Rugrat, you want lemonade or juice?”
“Lemonade.” Her voice comes out small but steady. “Please.”
“Magic word. Nice.” He messes up her hair before heading back inside.
The way they are together makes me want things I shouldn't want. Things that will hurt me for even hoping.
She grabs a sandwich, takes a bite, then says quiet enough I almost miss it, “I like him.”
“Me too.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Stupid. But not a lie. “He's one of the good ones.”
“Are you his girlfriend?”
It catches me off guard. “I... we're complicated.”
“What's that mean?” Her head tilts as she bites into her sandwich.
Good question, kid.
“It means we're figuring things out.” I pause, shuffling words around in my head to see which one would make more sense. None of them do. I never want to lie to her again. “We both care about you. That's not complicated.”
She considers this, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you love him?”
I nearly choke on my water. “That's a big question.”
“You don't have to answer.” She shrugs, too mature for her age. “Just wondering.”
I watch Hella through the window, moving around his kitchen in a way I'd never seen before. He's been patient, protective, gentle in ways I didn't know he could be. I'd be lying if I said it hasn't shifted something in me. Made me see past the violence and danger to the man underneath.
Do I love him?
“I might,” I admit, more to myself than to her. “But love's complicated too.”
“Everything's complicated with you.” She says matter-of-factly, without judgment, and I can't help but laugh.
“Yeah. It really is.”
Later that night, she's back in Hella's room. He told me she likes it in there because she doesn’t need to check every two seconds to see if he’s still there. Which means I'm no longer camped outside his door, but in the guest room down the hall, lying awake and staring at the ceiling while my body screams for the man a few doors away.
We haven't touched since she came back into my life. Haven't even come close. It’s not even crossed either of our minds when we’re with her, but every night, when she’s asleep and the house is quiet, dark, still, I lay here. Aching, replaying the way his hands felt on my skin, the way he growled my name when he came.
Focus on your daughter. Not on his dick.
There’s a soft knock on my door, and I freeze.
“Come in.”
Hella’s big form slips inside, shutting off the dim hallway light. He's shirtless again—seems to be his default state around the house.
“She's asking for you,” he says roughly. “Wants you to read to her.”
My skin prickles. “Really?”
“Really.” He leans against the door. Silence. My heart slows to a sluggish beat, the heaviness of his gaze weighted, even in the low light from my lamp. “You coming?”
I scramble out of bed, suddenly aware I'm wearing the same shirt of his I did the first night I stayed here. His eyes track down my body, lingering on my bare legs before snapping back to my face.