Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
It’s nearly impossible for me to wrap my mind around everything he just said—not only the fact that Rian is sharing it all with me, but it’s just another layer of who this man is—bringing home a young boy whose parents couldn’t be there for him the way he deserved. Many people wouldn’t do that, and I never expected that a killer would be someone who does. But even more than that is how impossible it is to hear him speak about Cillian and Moira and not feel how much he loves them.
“I always thought they would end up together, honestly—Cillian and Rory. It’s incredible really, who they are to each other, the bond they have, and the way they read each other, but then Cillian met Ollie, and Rory met Shai.”
“Shai?” I ask.
“His boyfriend.”
Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Most of the family he’s told me about are all with someone of the same gender. “Very queer family.” I smile. It sounds perfect.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
I’m definitely seeing that. Rian isn’t who I expected him to be, and I don’t know what to do with that. It doesn’t change who he is, of course, and the things he does, but it is another layer.
“Did you raise Rory?”
“Basically. His mom took her own life when he was eight. His father was murdered a few years later.”
“Isn’t all the queerness unexpected in your world?”
“This generation is different…better. The bond between those kids, it wasn’t like that in our day. For most people, it was every man for himself—with a few exceptions like Conan.” I huff, unable to believe that man can care about anyone, but Rian continues, “Like I said before, my son is better than me. All of them are better than all of us. Being queer isn’t an issue for them. It’s not an issue for me, and if who they love is an issue for anyone, then I will cut their fucking heart out before I allow them to hurt my son.”
I stumble, his words sending ice down my spine. On reflex, I reach for the closest thing to me, which happens to be Rian’s good arm, steadying myself to stay on my feet. The second I touch him, warmth spreads from the tips of my fingers, through my hand, and up my arm. It’s almost like a shock to the system, a jolt of…fuck if I know. Something. Which makes me jerk away from him.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Fine…just…”
“Too soon for the heart-cutting-out talk?” he teases, which should absolutely not be endearing, so why do I almost find myself smiling?
“I guess I can forgive you because it’s in queer solidarity and for your son.” And because he can’t be serious, right? But then, there’s nothing about him that should make me disbelieve anything he says. This man killed someone when he was eight years old. The thought immediately makes me sad again, sad for that little boy and the man he has become, the man he had no chance of escaping from the sounds of it.
“You shouldn’t forgive me for anything. Don’t compromise who you are for me.” And then, without another word, Rian starts to walk away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Abbott
Just as Rian pulls his right hand back, I watch as the tower of wood blocks goes tumbling to the coffee table.
I laugh. “You suck at this game.”
“Fuck off,” he replies.
“Jesus, you really hate to lose, don’t you?”
He leans back against the couch, looking as though he’s trying not to pout but not doing a very good job of it. “Who the hell likes losing?”
“No one, but not everyone looks like they want to set the house on fire after losing two games in a row of Jenga.”
He scowls, and for the second time in just a couple of minutes, I’m chuckling.
It’s been like this for three days now. After he’d turned away from me on our walk that first day, I’d just caught up with him, changed the subject, and Rian had let me. We came back to the house after that, and he’d handcuffed me to the bed again so he could take a nap. I have to admit, that part wasn’t fun. It’s a reminder of the fact that I’m a prisoner, which shouldn’t be something I need to be reminded of. I can’t figure out why I do, so most of the time, I try not to think of it at all.
After our nap, we’d watched a movie, hung out, cooked dinner, played cards, and then gone to bed. And we’ve been doing the same stuff every day since—walks, cooking, eating together, sitting on the porch, talking…just random things. Things one doesn’t typically do with a murderer—at least, I don’t. Things I didn’t really imagine a murderer doing with other people, especially one he’s kidnapped.