Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
A daughter is always a pawn.
Cassian’s words repeat. Was I that to my father? I know the truth, don’t I? The real truth. Was I only that to him, though? No. He loved me. I know he did.
My thoughts wander to Amal. She hates her father. That I understand. Malek is an opportunistic and selfish man. My father didn’t trust him, not at the end. I don’t know how Michael does, but he’s got this strange hold over my brother. He is clever though. Cleverer than he lets on. He’s one to watch.
I pop four pills out of their little pockets to make up for my missed days and swallow them with a handful of water. Better safe than sorry. Then, I draw a deep breath in and head to the bedroom door, but stop, double back to the bathroom to take the bloody sheet out of the hamper. I know where the laundry room is so I decide I’m going to put the bedding into the washing machine and wash away any evidence of last night. Like it didn’t happen at all. Cassian probably won’t be here anyway.
But the minute I’m out of the bedroom I know I’m wrong. Cassian is here. He’s in the kitchen. I can observe him from behind the pillars. He’s wearing jeans and a charcoal sweater, his uncombable hair is damp. He must have showered. I wonder where he slept. Once again, I note that he’s barefoot.
He has his phone pressed to his ear. For one stupid moment, I consider quietly sneaking back into the bedroom and hiding out there until he leaves, but before I even complete the thought, he turns and his eyes land on me. This man must have superhuman hearing.
“Fine. I’ll be there,” he says into the phone before disconnecting, sliding it into his pocket. “Moth,” he says, leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee. He looks me over, eyebrows furrowing in question at the bundle I’m holding.
My face goes red. He must know why I have the sheets. I clear my throat. “I need to do laundry.”
“I have someone for that.”
“No. It’s fine.” I head toward the laundry room. I have to cross all the way to the opposite end from where his bedroom is situated, and I feel his eyes on me the whole way. Once inside the laundry room, I close the door and exhale, then get to work setting the sheet in the washer. In the cabinet I find a stain remover and pour a bunch of that in along with detergent and set it to as hot as I can, then turn back to the door, steeling myself to face him.
He's acting cool. Relaxed. I can do that too. Last night didn’t matter. It was nothing, not to him and not to me. I’ll just act like it never happen.
When I get back to the kitchen, I notice my backpack is on the floor by the counter and my books and iPad are on top. He’s also picked up my sketch pad from last night which I must have dropped in the chapel.
“Is there coffee?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice that I don’t quite meet his eyes.
He sips his mug and gestures with a glance to the pot percolating beside him.
Last night never happened, I tell myself, and walk over, keeping as far from him as possible as I take the mug he has already set by the machine. I pour myself a cup. My stomach growls at the smell of bacon and I squeeze my belly muscles to muffle the sound.
“I’ll make you a plate,” he says, voice deep, aftershave potent. “Sit down.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
“I can hear your stomach growling.”
“And you care?”
“Sit.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I need to eat and what am I going to do? Hide out in the bedroom until this is over? And what does over look like exactly?
He takes a dish out of a cupboard and plates a generous serving of bacon and eggs, then turns to me, waiting.
I look up at him. This is awkward. There’s a giant elephant in the room.
“Sit, Moth.”
His use of the nickname Moth snaps me out of my stupor. A moth is an annoying, ugly wannabe butterfly. I should remember that that’s what he thinks of me.
Not that I care. Why would I?
Narrowing my eyes, I reach out to take the plate. He holds onto it and for a second, I wonder if he’s going to say something, to mention last night, and I don’t know what I want, but then he releases it. Feeling stupid, I cross the room and sit at the table where my things are laid out. He follows me with utensils and a glass of freshly squeezed juice. I try to picture him standing there barefoot, hair wet from a shower, drinking coffee and juicing oranges.