Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
The kitchen door swung open, and I straightened so quickly that spots danced before my eyes. Marcus stood there, watching me with an expression I couldn’t bear to interpret. The room tilted slightly, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright, too harsh.
“You don’t look good, honey,” he said, his voice low and gentle. He approached slowly, as if afraid I might bolt. Or collapse.
“I’m fine,” I managed, though my reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator door told a different story -- pale face, red-rimmed eyes, a woman coming apart at the seams. “Just haven’t eaten today. Got lightheaded.”
He moved closer, his presence both comforting and excruciating. I wanted to lean into him, to confess everything, to beg for help. Instead, I lowered my gaze to my feet, too ashamed to look him in the eyes.
“Cora.” Just my name again but loaded with questions I couldn’t answer.
“Really,” I insisted, not looking up. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
A moment of silence stretched between us, heavy with his doubt. Then his hand appeared in my field of vision, large and steady, covering mine where it rested on the counter. The touch was gentle but insistent. “If someone’s hurting you,” he said, each word slow and deliberate, “I can help. We can help you.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly shattered my fragile composure. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, using the sharp pain to center myself, to hold back the confession that threatened to spill out. “No one’s hurting me,” I whispered. Another lie, but not entirely. Reeves wasn’t hurting me physically. He was destroying not only my self-worth, but also any chance I might have had at happiness with Marcus.
He didn’t push, didn’t demand answers. He just stood there, solid and patient, his hand still covering mine. And that patience was almost worse than any interrogation could have been. I didn’t deserve his concern, not when I’d just planted a listening device that would capture his private conversations, betray his trust, and potentially harm him and everyone else here.
Marcus didn’t press me with more questions, but his quiet concern was almost worse than an interrogation. He watched me with those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through my walls to the terrified girl underneath.
“I should get going,” I mumbled, not meeting his eyes.
“I’ll walk you out.” Not an order, yet not quite a request either.
Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the compound. A few club members nodded to Marcus as we passed, their curious gazes sliding over me before looking away. Did they sense the deception clinging to me like a second skin? I couldn’t be less cut out for this task, and, I not only resented Reeves and Mercer for putting me in this position, I hated them both. Mercer more than Reeves because she should have been my advocate.
When we reached my car, I reached for the driver’s door, desperate to escape, to be alone with my shame and fear. To figure out what the hell I was going to do next. But before I could open it, Marcus’s hand gently closed around my arm. Not restraining, just connecting. “Cora.” My name in his mouth always sounded different. Softer. Important. “Look at me.”
I couldn’t. If I looked at him now, with guilt flooding my veins and Reeves’ threats echoing in my mind, I might shatter completely. But his fingers lightly touched my chin, tilting my face up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. The tenderness I found there nearly broke me. His dark eyes held no accusation, no suspicion. Only genuine concern that I knew I didn’t deserve.
“Tell me what’s going on so I can fix it,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You can trust me with your life, Cora. No one will ever protect you as fiercely as I will. I swear on my life.”
Trust. The word landed like a physical blow. What did I know about trust? My parents had taught me trust meant nothing. The streets had taught me trust was dangerous. And now I violated the trust of perhaps the only person who had ever offered trust freely. God had a special place in hell just for me, and I fucking deserved it.
“Marcus, I --” My voice caught, the words tangling in my throat on a small sob. I wanted to tell him. God, how I wanted to unburden myself, to explain about Reeves and the fabricated photos, the blackmail, the impossible choice I faced. But what if Reeves could hear us right now through the devices I still had on me? What if confessing put Marcus in danger?
“Whatever it is,” he continued, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek in a gesture so tender it made my eyes burn, “we can figure it out. Together.”