Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
His jaw pulses harder, but he continues as if he didn’t hear me, “It was never your fault what your father did to me, to my family. Like it was never your fault that my head’s so fucked up over it that I can’t see straight. That I punished you for your daddy’s crimes.”
My breaths are all shaky as I absorb his words. Soak them up like they’re my absolution. Absolution for being the daughter of a monster. But I can’t change my blood, can I? I’ll always be a Turner, and so I insist, “But I don’t think… I think maybe it’s better if my brother—”
“Let’s go,” he clips before I can say more.
I want to argue but I know it’ll be futile, so I nod.
I was right about people noticing us because as soon as we’re out of the truck and on the sidewalk, almost everyone does a double take. But mostly, it’s to stare at the man beside me and not his intimidating stature but his scar. To his credit, if he notices people openly gawking at him, he doesn’t let it show. His hand on the small of my back—that he put there the second he helped me climb out of the truck—doesn’t waver at all. It stays in place as he guides me to wherever our destination is. As if he’s used to it by now, and he is, isn’t he? After sixteen years of people treating him like a monster, like a zoo animal, of course he’s gotten used to it.
I’m not, though. I’m angry and I keep getting angrier as the time passes. So at one point, I let go of my dress that I was clutching in a death grip and grab his side. I fist his shirt and press close, almost resting my head on his ribs. At this, his hand does twitch and his smooth steps falter a bit. But I don’t make a big deal out of it. I keep my eyes forward and my grip on him tight. I also don’t want to analyze what I’m doing because I know I won’t be doing it for long. Just like that singing thing.
Our first stop is the clothing store. Where he lets me pick out whatever I want for the both of us while he keeps an eye on me and the surroundings. He’s doing it like he really expects a hidden threat to jump out of a corner and attack me. And I realize maybe I should be scared of that. I got shot at less than twenty-four hours ago, but on the heels of that first realization comes the second, more important one: The reason I’m not scared or even thinking about getting attacked is because he’d never let anything happen to me.
And not only because he took a bullet for me—God, I still can’t believe he did that—but because he never had any intention of letting anything happen to me. This is another thing I can’t get over. I mean, instead of leaving me there and going to get his sister, the one he hasn’t seen in sixteen years, the one whose life my father destroyed, he stayed with me. He stayed twenty feet away just so no harm could befall me. I know he said he knew they were playing games, but it was still a huge risk to take and he did it. Just so they wouldn’t hurt me. So no, I’m not afraid. Not for my life, at least.
When I’m done with my shopping, he escorts me to the counter to pay. The girl takes several seconds to first stare at Radisson and then several more to get her computer going because, apparently, she’s too flustered. It makes me so mad that I do the same thing I did on the street: I grab his arm and press close to him. Then I look up at him, only to find he’s staring down at me, at my hand around his massive biceps and my body plastered against his.
Swallowing, I say, “I got you a ton of purples and deep reds. Corals too. You know, earthy shades.” He stays silent, continuing to stare down at me, and I clutch his arm tighter. “Because of your eyes. They’re green, and all those colors… They’ll bring your eyes out. N-not that you need it. Your eyes are the most stunning eyes I’ve ever seen. You’re the most stunning man I’ve ever seen.” His body tenses, but I keep going, “In fact, the first time I saw you, really saw you, I didn’t even think you were real. I thought you looked like an angel. And this was despite you tying me to a tree, so you can bet your ass I meant it. I mean it.”
Those green eyes of his flash and my breaths stutter. I probably shouldn’t have said that; maybe it was too girly or sentimental. But I had to. I wanted the girl—and everyone else including him, for that matter—to know that I think he’s beautiful, and he is. Both inside and out. And nothing and no one can change my mind about that.