Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
He was a strange combination of colors and features that didn’t seem to go together in any traditional way, yet he was undeniably attractive to her.
Was it because she felt a curious connection? Still, after all these years? Was it because something about this man still felt…magical? A dream come to life? A walking fantasy?
Maybe. Or maybe it had nothing to do with any of that. Maybe it just was.
Autumn couldn’t help herself. She ran a hand over his cheek. He moaned, shifting away, whimpering and tensing, as though anticipating some sort of pain. Cruelty when he was too weak to fend it off. Sadness swept through her, a rushing river of compassion, full of sharp rocks that snagged her heart.
Autumn sat back, considering the whole of him, casting her gaze over his myriad scars once more and again wondering what brutalities he’d suffered and why.
“What did they do to you?” she asked, her heart aching. Sam’s eyelashes fluttered as he dreamed. She would have to wait for an answer.
Her gaze went to the blanket she’d spread over his lower half. She’d had to cut his jeans off but hadn’t removed the blue boxer shorts he’d been wearing even though the waistband was soaked in his blood, and it’d dried stiff and crusty. She wanted to respect his privacy. Yet she could clearly see that at least one part of his anatomy was working just fine, and though he might be different from other men in several noteworthy ways, what was going on down south was very usual. Your eyes lingering on the bulge beneath the blanket isn’t exactly respecting his privacy, Autumn.
Still, her gaze remained glued. He was a large man, and all his…various parts were obviously sized as such. She saw him twitch, the blanket rising slightly as at least one part of him regained consciousness.
Well, that was a measure of health, wasn’t it? And as a professional…oh, quit it. Your justification is pitiful. You just want to stare.
She resisted rolling her eyes at herself but averted her gaze from Sam’s nether regions, feeling ashamed but not overly ashamed. It wasn’t like he knew she was staring at his ample package.
Autumn stretched. She was exhausted. She stood and walked to the sofa near the window. She’d set her alarm and get at least a couple hours of sleep. Her purse was on the coffee table where she’d tossed it after dragging Sam inside and retrieving the things from the truck. She suddenly remembered the files she’d stolen from Chantelle’s office and dug them out of her purse.
She hadn’t had time to fully explore her emotions with regard to her birth mother. She’d all but shut it out since leaving the ratty hotel room where she lived, and then, well, life had flipped on its dang axis. She’d have to deal with that eventually, but did she really have to deal with whatever other upsetting facts might be laid out in her social services file?
Autumn pulled her legs beneath her, spread a blanket on her lap, and smoothed out her file on top. She was going to ask Sam for answers when he—God willing—woke up and was strong enough to talk. She may as well start the conversation knowing as much as possible about her beginnings and all that had happened—whether immaterial or not—prior to her meeting him in the woods in the dark of night.
She stifled another yawn, setting the other folders aside and opening hers. There was no copy of her birth certificate contained within—apparently, Chantelle had been honest when she’d told her that information, specifically her birth mother’s name, was sealed.
She flipped through the forms that had been filled out by social workers preparing to place her at Mercy Hospital for Children where a large population of other state-ward ADHM babies were being cared for. Her eyes caught and held on a small line near the bottom of one of the pages, inquiring on the date of ADHM diagnosis. The date listed was her birthday, but written next to that was the phrase, “Suspected ADHM.”
Suspected?
Across the room, Sam made a grunting sound in his sleep as though responding to her distress. She watched him for a moment, but he appeared to simply be dreaming, which was good because it meant he was sleeping deeply.
Autumn looked back at the paper, a frisson of confusion buzzing beneath her skin. Suspected ADHM.
They hadn’t been sure she was ADHM positive when she was born. Because her mother had told them the same thing she’d told Autumn? They’d doubted her perhaps. Another lying junkie. Par for the course when it came to addicts. But still, they’d listed her as suspected.
But there were tests that would indicate whether a mother had taken ADHM, even in small amounts, during pregnancy. They were in-depth, and results could take weeks from what she knew. But they’d performed those tests later when she was at Mercy Hospital, and they’d come up positive…right?