Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Spinning on my heel, I left the room.
I needed to stop thinking that way.
I checked on her a couple times in the night. Once, she was crying, curled up back in the chair with her knees drawn up tight against her chest. It took everything I had not to go in and offer her comfort, even though I knew she’d curse at me and tell me it was entirely my fault anyway. I was pretty sure she’d never seen anyone murdered before—and I hadn’t let her know she still hadn’t. Instead, I let her cry it out, and I snuck back in to carry her back to the bed and make sure she was covered up.
I had to laugh in the morning when I checked on her. She was asleep again on the floor—proving her point, I suppose, that she decided where she would sleep. But at least she’d taken a blanket with her this time.
I made her breakfast and took it in, trying not to wake her up as I lifted her, once again, onto the bed.
I couldn’t resist running my hand through her curls as she burrowed deeper into the pillow.
I did, however, manage to resist the temptation to drop a kiss on her pale cheek.
I left the room, shaking my head at the strange thoughts I was having.
I walked into the house, still processing my meeting with Orson. Sean was in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and eating a bowl of pasta. His laptop was open, and he chuckled away as he chewed and swallowed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just keeping an eye on our guest.”
“Did she eat her breakfast? Or is it quarantined for drug inspection?”
“After a fashion.”
I grabbed a bottle of water. “Meaning?”
“She rolled the muffins into the napkin you had them on and stuffed them and the bottle of water in her backpack.”
My bottle stopped midair. “What the fuck for?”
He spun the computer. “For a meal later…after she escapes.”
I narrowed my eyes on the screen. “What the hell is she doing?”
“I think she had a nail file or something in her pack. She’s using it to unscrew the bars on the window.”
I leaned beside him. “I guess she doesn’t know the windows don’t open.”
He twirled another mouthful of pasta. “Nope.”
“How long has MacGyver been at it?”
“She started not long after you left. The first screw took her almost forty minutes. She’s getting better.”
“You haven’t busted her?”
“Nah. Gives her something to do. I have teased her some, though. I go check on her, making a lot of noise so she knows I’m coming.”
I snickered. “What does she do?”
“Yanks the curtains closed and sits down, pretending to be napping. She’s a really bad actress.”
I shook my head. “Stubborn little kitten.”
He looked at me. “Why do you call her that?”
I shrugged. “She had herself all trapped in a corner at the warehouse. When I pulled her out, she was terrified but tried to look so fierce. Like a kitten thinking they look like a lion.” I flicked my hand at the screen. “And she’s all tiny and everything.”
“You told her our names.”
“It slipped.” I shrugged. “Who’s she gonna tell, Sean? The day she leaves this house, she’ll know the truth. That we aren’t what she thinks we are. But that won’t be until it’s over, and it won’t matter anymore.”
“Careful, Cian. Your real self is showing through. You can’t afford to let that happen yet.”
I shook my head, pushing away from the counter. “It’s fine. I’m gonna take her some lunch. She has to be starving.”
“Not yet. Look, she’s got them off.”
We watched as the bars covering the window came off, and Skylar carefully slid them to the floor. She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder, then climbed up on the back of the chair. She ran her hand over the casements, no doubt looking for a handle. Her movements became frantic, and she started trying to pull on the wood using her little tool. I had to admire her tenacity.
“She’s going to hurt herself,” I muttered. “Maybe I need to go and stop her.”
Suddenly, she gave up, dropping down into the chair, defeat causing her shoulders to slump. She launched herself at the bed, burying her head into the pillows as her arms and legs thrashed.
“Temper tantrum,” Sean mused. “She’s not a happy camper.” Leaning forward, he turned up the volume, and we both chuckled at the muffled shrieks. My grin turned into a frown as the shrieks became tears, and her entire body shook from the strength of her sobs.
I stood, and he laid his hand on my arm. “Let her get it out, Cian. She probably needs the release. Tell me what happened with Orson, then you can go and see her.”
I hated the thought of her weeping, for some reason. It bothered me more than I wanted to admit. As usual, Sean was right, though, and she needed to get it out.