Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I hear my own voice, hoarse and wrecked: “You never wanted a romance, did you?” I swallow, fighting the urge to spit. “You never needed help with research. You just needed a warm body and a wet piece of pussy, not to mention some girl dumb enough to buy your bullshit for two months.”
He stares at me, mouth open. For once, he doesn’t have a line ready.
I keep going, my voice getting louder with every word. “You lied to me. From the start. All those scenes, all those stories—you were just enjoying the pretense. You didn’t give a fuck about any of it. Or about me.”
I can feel the tears burning at the corners of my eyes, but I blink hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He tries to speak, but I cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t you dare try to twist this. I know exactly what you were doing. I found the emails, Talon. I found all of it, and there’s no romance manuscript. There never was, and you never even planned on writing a romance.”
The room is silent, except for the sound of my own ragged breath.
For a moment, I think he might apologize, or maybe even laugh it off like a joke. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, towel slipping down his hips, hands clenching into fists.
“I was never going to hurt you, Kat,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You know that.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know anything anymore. Not after last night. Not after—” I gesture at the sticky mess drying on my thighs, the bruises on my hips, the bruised places on my heart.
He doesn’t move. He just watches me, blue eyes cold and flat.
I let the manuscript slide to the floor, pages fluttering out like dead birds.
“Fuck you,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope your book tanks.”
For a second, he looks like he might break. But then he stands, rolls his shoulders, and the mask slips back on.
“If that’s how you want to play it, Kitten,” he says, voice smooth as glass, “then you’re free to go.”
He leaves the room, the scent of cedar wood trailing after him like a curse.
I sit up, the evidence of his betrayal in a heap at my feet, and try to remember how to breathe.
It takes me a long time to scrape myself off the floor. My knees feel like they’re welded in place, and the rest of me isn’t far behind. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and stare at the tangle of emails and manuscript pages littering the floor.
Talon doesn’t come back for a while. I half-expect him to just vanish, maybe pack his shit and ghost me so I can get the last word. But that’s not his style. He wants control, even if he has to scrape it up from the ruins of a bombed-out morning.
I hear the fridge open, then close. The sound of a beer bottle popping. The soft, measured steps as he pads upstairs, this time fully dressed. Dark jeans, black thermal shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looks clean and fresh and completely untouchable. Not a trace of the man who fucked me raw against the mattress just last night.
He stands in the doorway, bottle dangling from his fingers, head tilted like he’s sizing up a chessboard.
“Kitten,” he says. Not a question, not an apology. Just the old nickname, rolled out like a red carpet he expects me to walk.
I don’t answer.
He comes closer, taking slow, careful steps, never looking away from my face. He sets the beer down on the side table, kneels next to the bed, and reaches for my hand.
I yank it back, folding it tight into my ribs.
He doesn’t flinch. He just holds the space, staring at me with those eyes that have always been equal parts mercy and murder.
“I want to talk,” he says, voice softer now. “Let’s talk. You can yell, you can throw shit, whatever you want. But let’s not—”
“Let’s not what?” I spit, and the sound of my own voice makes me want to puke. “Let’s not ruin the vibe? Let’s not make it ugly?”
He looks at the floor, then at me, and for a second I see something like regret. But only for a second.
“I never lied about wanting you here,” he says, choosing every word like it’s a bomb wire. “I never lied about what I felt. Not even once.”
I laugh, ugly and sharp. “You just lied about everything else.”
He shrugs, like he’s accepting a compliment. “You were the only one who ever made this place feel less lonely.”
It’s a good line, and I feel my spine soften, just a little. That’s what makes me the angriest. I want to hate him, but my body still aches for him. Even now, I want him to pull me into his lap and hold me like he means it.