Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Something about her makes me want to give her pieces of myself I’ve kept buried all my life. She shifts closer, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body reach me. Her voice is soft.
“No child deserves that.”
Neither did she, but she doesn’t seem to believe it about herself. She never asks for sympathy. She never expects comfort. And maybe that’s what makes me want to comfort her more.
Silence settles over us. It’s easy and peaceful, refreshing after the heavy truths we’ve just laid bare to each other.
She leans back against the cushions slowly. Her breathing evens out. Her posture relaxes inch by inch as the exhaustion of the past weeks finally claws its way to the surface. I watch her eyes blink slower and slower until the lids flutter. Her mouth softens. Her head tilts slightly until it comes to rest against the edge of the couch cushion.
She falls asleep right beside me, and I recognize that, in some small way, I’ve given her enough comfort to feel safe with me. That’s huge. It’s everything. I’ve never particularly seen myself as a comforting person, but I want to give her that. I want her to always feel safe with me.
Even if everyone else in this city fears me.
Her breath moves in a slow rhythm, a soft rise and fall that makes something tighten low in my stomach. Her face looks younger when she sleeps. Peaceful. Soft. Unwounded by the world.
I want her so badly my hands shake.
I want to lift her into my lap, kiss her until she wakes with that sleepy gasp she makes when desire hits her, and take her to bed. I want to bury myself in her until she forgets every ugly thing that ever happened to her.
I want to take care of her in every way a man can take care of a woman.
But I can’t. Not like this. Not when she’s exhausted and vulnerable and trying so hard to stand her ground in a life that’s not hers.
I force myself to stand. My muscles protest. My body feels like it’s trying to anchor me to the couch beside her. I ignore the instinct and slide my arms under her gently.
She stirs, murmuring something unintelligible, but she doesn’t wake. Her head falls lightly against my shoulder. Her arms curl instinctively against her chest, small and soft, like she’s protecting someone precious. The motion sends another sharp ache through me.
She’s light in my arms as I carry her down the hall to the guest bedroom. When I lower her to the mattress, she releases a small sigh. I cover her with the blanket, tucking it around her shoulders. She curls toward the pillow and presses her cheek against it.
I stand there longer than I should. Long enough to feel something in me shift again. Long enough to realize I’m in real danger of caring for someone more than I care about myself. That’s the worst sin I could possibly commit. Because caring for her would mean putting her in danger. It would mean making her a liability.
But I do want her. I want her more than I want control. More than I want distance. More than I want the safety of keeping my life clean and cold and uncomplicated. I want her in ways I have no right to want anyone.
I step back and close the door quietly, my pulse thick in my throat.
I’ve never been a man with soft edges. I’m the Wolf. I’m a predator, a villain, a criminal. Men like me don’t have any right to women like her.
More importantly, men like me shouldn’t want women like her. I can’t afford the liability.
10
MOLLY
Iwake before the sun, my body humming with the restless awareness that Samuil is somewhere in this sprawling penthouse. Last night, sleep only came in scraps. I drifted in and out, my mind circling the same thoughts over and over until I finally gave up and climbed out of bed.
Every time I fell asleep, I thought about how much I’d shared with him. I told him more about my past than I’ve ever told anyone, and he actually listened. And that was terrifying.
I said too much. I know I did. But he shared a lot too. He made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I wasn’t the only person with a completely fucked up childhood. Somewhere between the quiet confessions and the long silences that didn’t feel empty at all, some invisible wall between us cracked. There’s no pretending otherwise.
It almost makes me wonder if I should tell him about the baby. There’s clearly a softer side to him.
The kitchen is still dark as I slip into it, bare feet silent on the cool tile. I flick on a single soft, golden light, enough to brighten the room without waking the whole apartment. My hands move automatically, gathering ingredients, cracking eggs, slicing fruit, warming bread, filling the space with the soft sound of sizzling butter and the scent of cinnamon from the French toast batter.