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)
I tear the cracker packet open with my teeth and eat every crumb, dipping them into the peanut butter and scraping the cup clean with my finger.
After a long and unsuccessful attempt to sleep, I push myself up and pad over to him, the oversized shirt brushing my thighs. He doesn’t remove his gaze from the screen, but he tilts his head when he senses me behind him.
I rest my hands on his shoulders. His muscles tense then loosen under my touch. I rub slow circles the way he likes, the way I’ve watched him do to himself when his neck locks up.
His body runs hotter than mine. He’s my very own heater. I lean down and fold my arms around his neck. My cheek presses into the back of his head. His hair smells like sunshine and whatever soap he used in a bucket.
Then I kiss him. Not on the mouth. On his cheek. Then the top of his head. The place where his hair parts.
This is how it’s supposed to be. Him and me. Together. When we’re apart, something inside me goes wrong. I don’t know how to breathe right.
He sets one hand over mine, holding it in place for a second before letting go. His eyes flick to a different monitor, and that’s when I notice it.
The street outside my foster home.
I lean closer.
He clicks a key, freezing the footage right as a girl steps off the bus.
Me.
My stomach cramps, not scared, just worried. Like finding out he can record the thoughts in my head.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“I’m learning how to control the public cameras.” He doesn’t look guilty. He looks smug.
“Why? What for?”
“If you won’t tell me who hurt you, I’ll figure it out myself.” He taps a few keys, rewinding.
The screen shows the bus pulling up again, the whole street shifting backward like he can control time.
My pulse spins.
He switches to another tab, a black window filled with green letters streaming down like rain. I don’t understand any of it. I only know he taught himself this stuff when we still had parents.
“What else can you do?” I inch closer to the screens.
“I can break into school records.”
He shows me how he changes my grades when we move, so I don’t have to repeat classes. He digs up addresses of foster families before I meet them, tracks bus schedules and routes so he never loses me, and disables door alarms so he can sneak into houses and get supplies.
All of it is for me. Every single thing.
He clicks another screen. A live feed from a camera near my school. Then another from the porch at my foster house. Then one I don’t recognize at all.
“You can’t do this,” I whisper.
“I already am.” That angry line between his brows deepens. “I’m not letting anyone touch you. Never again.”
A part of me knows this isn’t normal. Other kids don’t have someone watching every sidewalk they step on. But the bigger part of me, the part that aches when he’s not near, loves it.
If Jag is watching, I’m safe. And if I’m safe, he’s calm.
He rewinds the footage, frame by frame, eyes narrowed as he scans every person on the sidewalk.
He’ll find her.
“Jag…” I step between him and the screens, twisting the hem of my shirt in my fingers.
His eyes drop to the movement of my hands. Then lower.
He chokes. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” I look down.
A thin red river trails down my thigh. It’s dark and sticky and startling.
“Oh.” I have no idea what else to say.
“Did you cut yourself?” His eyes dart around the room, trying to find what stabbed me. “Where did you—?” Slowly, his head lifts again. He studies my face, his mouth opening, closing, and opening again. “Did you get your period?”
“My… Period?”
“Your cycle.” His voice drops even quieter. “Like… Your monthly. Blood.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had that. What do I do?”
“Okay.” He blows out a breath and rubs his jaw like he’s trying not to panic. “Okay. Come with me.”
He takes my wrist, and I follow him into the bathroom again.
“Stand in the tub.” He clears his throat and looks away. “And take off your underwear.”
I climb into the rusty bathtub and pull down my underwear. The red-stained fabric looks unreal, like someone else wore it.
“This is my only pair.” I hold it out and away.
“I’ll take care of it.” He takes it from my hand and brings it to the sink.
With bucket water and a sliver of soap, he washes it the same way he cleans away other blood, fast and silent. I’ve watched him wash blood from his hands more times than I can remember. But never my blood.
Red drips along his fingers, mixing with the water and twisting into little spirals before disappearing down the drain. It’s weirdly beautiful. Mesmerizing.