Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
I let myself drown in those memories, choke on them.
It was what I deserved.
He found me, sitting on the floor of the living room, covered in dried blood. I’d been so tired, had needed to sit but didn’t want to dirty the couch. Didn’t want to have to burn it.
Although only flakes of blood had fallen from me, I’d have to get my car detailed. Or do it myself as missed flecks of blood would probably raise red flags.
I needed to dispose of my clothes.
All things that ran through my mind as I was curled up in a ball on the floor. In a moment, I told myself. I’d do it in a moment.
It was the middle of the night.
And Elliot was here. Was he real?
His hand was warm against the ice sculpture that was my cheek. So warm it sent a spear of agony through me. I didn’t move, though. He spoke, said my name. It echoed in my head. From somewhere far away. I didn’t reply. My lips were fused together.
How had he known I was here? Did he have some kind of alert on the door, my brother or Kip surveilling the house through the security system I didn’t doubt they had the connections to hack into?
The details didn’t much matter.
Nothing mattered.
I felt his body curl around me, the heat from his arms scalding me for a second. But even his sunshine couldn’t penetrate where I’d buried myself. I couldn’t grasp on to an ounce of warmth from the man who used to stoke an inferno inside of me.
When he brought me into his arms, I felt encased and entombed by them.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Shame covered me like oil. I was supposed to be stronger than that. Falling apart after doing something that needed to be done, essentially going catatonic. I hated it when they did that in movies, when the hero rightly killed the villain then tortured themselves over the act itself.
I’d thought it was bullshit. But I got it. Killing wasn’t heroic. It was disgusting and selfish. Against nature. It changed something visceral inside of you.
My eyes protested as the lights switched on, and a warm glow bathed the room.
Elliot’s swift intake of breath caught my ears as he gazed at my body. My eyes followed his.
Blood covered me, my torso, my arms. I hadn’t realized how bad it looked.
“It’s not mine,” I managed to croak out, unable to keep looking at the concern in Elliot’s eyes. Horror. He was not meant to be faced with a woman covered in the blood of a former lover. That was not the life he deserved. Yet there he was. Because I dragged him into it.
His eyes found mine.
There it was.
My anchor.
Still holding me down.
Holding me together.
Though I was still wading through the thickness of the fog in my mind, I could see the questions he wanted to ask. All of it was painted on his face. Revulsion, fear, concern. Yeah, there were probably a lot of questions to ask the woman sitting in front of him, drenched in blood that wasn’t hers.
Most promptly would be questions having to do with the authorities. Normal people’s first instinct was to call the law, to seek help. Elliot was normal. He believed in law and order. I doubt he’d so much as jaywalked.
I was not normal. The law wouldn’t help me, if he suggested we call them. They’d put me in cuffs.
If he wanted to call them, I wouldn’t stop him. Couldn’t right then. Maybe that was where I deserved to be. In a cage. If that’s where he thought I belonged, that’s where I’d go. Elliot was the judge and jury. His word meant more than any in the land.
“Let’s get you in the shower.” He spoke firmly, purposefully, with softness but also with confidence. It told me he’d made some kind of decision. He’d been standing at a crossroads and had made a decision. It was the wrong one. I wanted to scream it at him.
I blinked up at him with questions of my own swirling. Did he know that showering me would make him an accomplice? That it would wash away the tangible evidence of my crime?
But I didn’t ask him any questions. I let him gather me into his arms, feeling small and delicate and like I’d rattle if he took a misstep.
But he didn’t. Every one of his strides was sturdy, sure, as if my added weight was nothing but a bag of groceries.
I wanted to look at him. At the contours of his face, to see if I could find the same man I left. But I was afraid of what he saw now, how he’d look at me now. I didn’t want to see the truth of myself in his eyes.
So I kept my gaze on the ceiling instead, my body rejoicing and revolting in the places he touched me. I wanted his touch, his warmth. But he was rubbing Jasper’s blood on him. My crime. My sin was tarnishing him.