Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Here we go.” Leo takes a swig and returns the bottle to Dove.
“I support mental health.” Frankie flattens her hands on the journals.
“You support mental torture.”
“Shut up, Leo,” we all say in unison.
Dove laughs, takes a sip from the bottle, and offers it to me. As she curls up against my chest, her warmth sinking into my bones, the whole room shifts around that simple connection.
My past sits on Frankie’s lap.
My future sits on my lap.
My family sits around me, loud, supportive, and mine.
For the first time in my life, I’m surrounded by people and don’t feel alone.
I don’t remember the first day I felt cold. But I remember the first day I felt warm.
It wasn’t sunlight. It wasn’t Monty’s high-end heating system. It wasn’t even my family rescuing me from arctic hell.
It was a runaway bride in white satin, sprinting down the street, skirt bunched in her fists, rage and hurt and defiance in her eyes.
The moment I saw Dove, her hair flying around her as if she were born from lightning, burned through me so fast I didn’t even know what it was. I only knew it melted the cold that had lived under my ribs since forever.
That warmth simmers through my veins now as I float on my back in the pool, listening to her cut through the water beside me.
Summer wraps the island in lazy softness, the dark sky streaked with starlight. The air smells like ocean salt, wet stone, and the faint sweetness of the lotion I rubbed into Dove’s skin after our shower this morning.
She surfaces with a slow push of her hands through her hair, looking like a retro pin-up rising out of the water.
The black-and-white halter bikini hugs her figure as if grateful for the job. Just one of the many rockabilly pieces I ordered during my online shopping bender.
Zero regrets.
“You’re staring.” She wades toward me, her hips swishing beneath the water. “Is this swimsuit your favorite?”
“You are my favorite.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve never owned this many clothes in my life.”
“That’s why I fixed it.”
“No one needs twenty bikinis.”
“Correction.” I sink beneath the water, letting my lips skim the surface as I drift toward her. “You needed exactly that. You also needed that vintage skirt that swirls when you walk. You needed those boots for the next saloon door you kick open. You needed those tiny shorts that make it so damn easy for me to access heaven. And don’t get me started on the body jewelry.”
“I admit your taste in fashion is exquisite. But the sheer amount of clothing you bought…” She splashes my face. “It’s excessive, you weirdo.”
“Your beauty is excessive.” And I’m fucking drunk on it.
After I bought half the Internet, I made her try on every single item in a private fashion show.
Spoiling her satisfies the newly awakened, possessive beast inside me that requires constant proof that she’s here, safe, and mine.
She’s clothed because I put clothes on her, fed because I put food in her mouth, and protected because I dragged her into my cave and locked the door behind her.
I glide closer and fit myself between her knees. Her thighs instinctively wrap around my waist. Warm. She’s so fucking warm.
“You know…” I brush a wet strand from her cheek. “I like taking care of you. Even if you don’t need it.”
“I like letting you. Even if I pretend I don’t need it.”
I kiss the corner of her mouth because if I kiss her fully, we’re not talking anymore. And we need to talk.
It’s been two days since we had sex the first time. Two days mostly spent naked, in bed or out of it, her breath tangled with mine, her nails in my shoulders, and my name in her throat.
My cock aches at the memory, ready to go again.
But tonight holds a quiet that invites a deeper connection. Rather than flinching from it, I feel strong enough to face it.
Maybe because of yesterday’s session with Dr. Thurber.
He’s a good listener. He doesn’t try to fix me in the first five minutes or talk to me like I’m a feral animal. He just waits and lets me speak when I’m ready.
And this time, I surprised myself. I shared things. Not everything, not the worst pieces, but enough to break away some of the stubborn plaque in my chest.
He told me my nightmares make sense. My panic spikes make sense. My breakdown after touching Jag… That makes sense, too. No shame or judgment. Just a man saying, You survived hell, Wolfson. Your brain reacts because it remembers.
Not gonna lie. I hate how exposed these sessions make me feel, how he sees the things I don’t say, and how he names feelings I’d rather pretend I don’t have. There’s a mountain of shit I need to work on. The anger, the guilt, and the stupid fixation on Jag Rath that I can’t shake.