Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“Delude ourselves? Really?” I thought he couldn’t hurt me more.
Turns out, I was wrong, and now I’m trying to pull an arrow out of my chest.
For a second, his eyes flash with all the turmoil in my heart before they shut down.
Cold. Hard. Remote.
All the things he used to be before this stupid thing started.
All the things he wants us to be again.
Holy hell, maybe I really am deluded.
“Somewhere along the way, we made this more complicated than it had any right to be,” he says, trying to be gentle. But his arms are folded, blocking me out. “You know what time it is. So do I. Let’s finish this shit and get on with our lives.”
“Complicated,” I repeat. “Well, you’re right about that, asshole.”
He winces with a fury that almost makes me sad.
Almost.
“Be realistic! You know I’m talking sense,” he snarls. “We let ourselves get distracted. What we need to think about is offloading that egg ASAP. Hell, just leave it with me. You want to send it to that museum, fine. I’ll do the background checks, make sure everything’s in place, and drop it off in a matter of days. You can meet me there.”
“Absolutely not. We’ve come this far… You’re crazy if you think you’ll get rid of me that easy.”
“Not what I meant.” Hurt strains his face.
Whatever.
All business. Because it’s always fucking business with Holden Verity and hearts are an afterthought.
I feel gutted.
And I don’t know if he’s expecting more.
An apology? A delayed acknowledgment that I’m young and emotional and being ridiculous? A delayed confession that he’s so wise?
No way. He’s SOL.
I take off, accidentally banging his shoulder as I storm past him to the stairs, leaving behind my whirlwind of art.
Call me petty, I don’t care.
Right now, I hope it hurts.
I hope he shares a flicker of my pain.
22
DOWN AND OUT (HOLDEN)
When she doesn’t come to my bed that night, I’m not surprised.
Just frustrated as hell.
I put myself in a doghouse built from my own damn blueprint. I roll over and punch the pillow.
The house hums with silence. I think I can hear her breathing in the other room.
After too many nights next to her, I’ve memorized the sound. Not having it with me feels like I’m missing a blanket.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, slow and deep and sweet.
Sometimes she murmurs when she rolls over, releasing this soft sigh of contentment before she snuggles up to me.
I can count my drumming heartbeats between breaths.
Barely a few weeks and I’m a fucking addict, suffering withdrawals. But I deserve this.
I’m the reason we’re in two separate rooms.
What woman would’ve reacted differently after the guy she’s fucking called her a complication and tried to let her down easy?
Fool. My body doesn’t care, though. It just despises what my traitor conscience took away.
The cold spot on her side of the bed.
The void where her breath should be on my face.
No hair getting in my mouth.
No lithe little body pressed against mine.
No sleepy kisses.
No divinely sculpted hips sliding into my hands, begging to be claimed with a hungry grip.
Worse, before I crashed, I did a background check on the museum and its curator and turned up nothing questionable.
No shady connections. No past arrests, no encounters with law enforcement, no corruption.
They’re a smaller operation, yeah, but clean and secure.
If we can deliver the Hera Egg quickly, it won’t be our problem anymore.
That should be a relief.
A chance for life to revert back to what it used to be.
Instead, it pisses me off.
Kit’s going to miss having Cleo around—and so will I.
Because there’s no way she’ll go anything but no-contact once she walks out. After she gets her first payment and the freedom to fly back to Boston and leave behind bad memories here that should’ve ended the day Leonidas died.
Especially after she begged me to say it.
Stay.
And I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
No one’s going to target her when she doesn’t have the egg anymore. That’s not how this works and I can wash my hands of this mess.
No more danger, and nothing holding back my severance pay.
No more excuses for keeping her around, screwing her up.
Fuck, man, I hate it.
It’s coming too fast. There won’t even be time to figure out how I’m supposed to split on better terms, how to swallow my pride and apologize.
I roll over, kicking at the sheets that twist around my leg.
I’m too old for this shit.
I’m supposed to be past this.
After Charli, I swore I’d never get tangled up in anyone’s emotional bullshit again.
Yet here I am. Tossing and turning like a man turned inside out.
It tears me up, her leaving without fixing what went wrong. I’m asking for a way out of the unfixable.
Nothing outshines the infinite reasons why we can’t work.
Hurting her like this feels cruel but necessary.
We had to pull back before crash-landing.