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)
The police and ambulance eventually left, but only after a long argument with Elliot about the need for me to go to the hospital.
Finn made promises about having a patrol car posted at the end of the driveway.
“Any chance of you leaving one of those with him, who doesn’t believe in his right to bear arms?” I joked, nodding to his gun.
Finn didn’t smile. “Against regulations. But I’ll urge you to lawfully obtain a firearm, given the current situation,” he told Elliot.
Elliot merely nodded, mouth a thin line.
Finn gave both of us a curious look before leaving.
The house, once bustling with people in uniforms, fell deadly silent.
What did one say in the aftermath of such an event? My arm throbbed, so I looked at the bottle of over-the-counter painkillers the EMT had suggested I take. The only thing that had tempted me with going to the hospital was the harder drugs I’d get there. Instead, I walked over to the wine rack in Elliot’s kitchen, bottles arranged neatly and more well-stocked than I expected.
I wasn’t a big wine drinker, but I’d educated myself on it out of necessity and was impressed with the label on the bottle of red.
Bumbling around the kitchen, I found the opener and two glasses. I wasn’t brave enough to look at Elliot, who hadn’t spoken nor moved from his spot in the middle of the living room.
It was incredibly unnerving, since Elliot wasn’t one for the silent treatment or to brood like my brother.
My hand shook as I poured the wine, but I blamed that on the gunshot wound, not nerves.
On unsteady legs, I walked back over to Elliot, two glasses in hand. I outstretched one to him. I cradled my own glass with my bad arm, the dull ache ever present.
“If getting shot at isn’t a reason to break open an Old World vintage, I don’t know what is.” My voice was shamefully thin.
My hand stayed there, suspended in space for a few seconds before he took it.
“Shot,” he corrected me, lifting his eyes to mine. “You weren’t shot at. You were shot.” His eyes landed on my bandaged arm then on the not small stain of blood on the rug.
My eyes followed his. “I’ll pay for it to get cleaned.”
His expression was no longer blank, fury dancing in his gray irises and his jaw working. “I don’t give a fuck about the rug, Calliope,” he snapped, almost yelling. He closed his eyes, took a visible breath, lifted the wine to his mouth and swallowed. He was calming himself down. I was watching it in real time. Because when he opened his eyes, his posture was slightly more relaxed, less of a storm in his expression, mouth no longer forming a grimace.
I’d never seen a man self-regulate himself so quickly.
“Shot,” he said again softly. “You were shot.”
He stepped forward, his hand ghosting over the bandage but not touching me.
“I’m fine.” I sipped my wine, and though I was sure it was an explosion on the palette, I couldn’t taste anything but terror. I wasn’t entirely lying. The physical injury wasn’t serious. I wouldn’t even scar once a plastic surgeon was done with me, because no way would I let someone else leave a permanent mark on my skin. The small scar above my eye already haunted me daily. I didn’t even know my hand had lifted to the spot until Elliot’s entire attention zeroed in on it.
He didn’t try to argue with that statement, the weight of his attention on that small, almost unnoticeable portion of my skin. The intensity of his gaze made me feel like it would sink me into the floor.
“Something happened to you,” he said with a serious glint to his eye that was unfamiliar. There was something else too. A cold rage that shimmered beneath the surface. That male rage, wanting to avenge a broken or battered woman.
The rapid change in the conversation, the depth of his ability to read me, was unnerving to put it mildly. He was quickly putting pieces together, and I didn’t like it. My eyes darted for the front door, considering sprinting out of it and never laying eyes on him again.
Despite it being the smartest and safest decision, I stayed where I was.
“Something happens to everyone,” I shrugged, knowing lying was not going to work since the idea of lying to Elliot made me want to hurl. Me. The woman who could lie as easily as breathing to whomever, including those who loved her, shared her blood, birthed her. Yet I could not lie to Elliot.
But I could not share that secret with him. With anyone, beyond Jasper. And when I shared it with him, it was used as a weapon, barbed and debilitating. I didn’t let myself think of it as something that happened to me. Bringing it out from the depths in which I’d stuffed it meant I’d have to acknowledge it. Acknowledge that I was not strong enough to deal with it. And my strength defined me. I wasn’t ready to have my entire identity unravel. Plus, Elliot was pulling at enough threads already.