Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
It’s the relentless flashing that kills me.
I didn’t know cameras not attached to phones could still blind you.
We stand outside the office building where Little Key leases the top floor. There’s an overhang fronted by polished sandstone columns. The paving underneath forms a small outdoor entryway leading up to multiple sets of double doors.
It’s here that August chose to hold the press meet, keeping them from snooping and prying around the Little Key workings.
It also creates a dividing line that invisibly says Do not cross. Over three dozen reporters and cameramen are out on the smooth grey pavement in a plaza centered by a fountain.
It keeps them from crowding us, and the building itself blocks the biting late-winter wind to give us shelter. Not to mention an easy escape route so they can’t follow us into the building. The plan is to take off in the getaway car waiting on the curb together after we’ve made our statements—and let people assume we’ve run off to our lovers’ nest.
It also makes the flashes that much brighter, with the overhang casting its shadow over us.
August is saying—something?
I don’t know what.
I caught my name; then the flashes from hell melted my eyeballs again, turning me into a frozen statue.
My head rings horribly.
My vision swims, exploding with spangles.
Someone’s barking questions at me, but it’s not August. I think he’s answering for me, but I can’t tell, when his voice is just this hollow cadence that doesn’t form real words.
It hurts.
It also makes me think of this Reddit post I saw once about this guy who got off on his wife’s migraine pain, so he’d wake her up in the middle of the night with a flashlight in her face, flicking it on and off quickly while turning the alarms as high as they would go so she’d burst into an explosive migraine and be helpless while he fucked her.
Honestly, I don’t think a single court in the world would have convicted her for cutting his throat. But I feel like I’m being tried and sentenced right now.
Because I haven’t said a single word through the chaos, and I’m failing spectacularly as August’s imaginary fiancée.
I want to say something.
I want to help.
I want to be myself, extroverted and chirpy and happy to meet these pushy asshats.
I want to be able to walk away from this with August feeling triumphant that we pulled it off without a hitch.
I want to see him give me a real smile just once.
But all I can do is stand woodenly, fighting the urge to burst into tears from the invisible knife plowing through my eye.
Did I mention it hurts?
Everything is red-white, receding into this awful sea, like the whole world drowning in the light of a blood moon.
My knees go weak. I have to lock them to stay up.
Damn, say something.
Tell August what’s happening and apologize for failing already, but every time I try to even form a sentence in my brain—I can’t.
Another acid flash goes off.
Even closing my eyes and lifting my hand to shield them doesn’t stop my brain from getting blown to bits.
“. . . lle. Elle. Elle!”
My name?
I realize it’s my name because it’s the only sound that doesn’t peel my face off.
That chocolate-silk voice pours over me, trying so hard to erase the pain.
Then there’s a huge hand at the small of my back. Hot as sand- and sea-washed rocks left baking under the sun all day, easing that warmth back into me.
It’s all comfort.
And suddenly, the flashers stop assaulting me.
Because there’s a tall body moving between me and the source like a wall.
I don’t think anything could ever get through August Marshall.
My senses are a stained glass window after a shattering gunshot, but I know the scent of sandalwood and the crispness of his suit and his weight.
When I’ve got a real rager going on, the slightest stimulation can shred me, but this—this is grounding me, sheltering me, as August’s arms pull me against his chest.
I gasp, my eyes prickling with pain and frustration as I huddle against him.
The spell is broken.
I’m magically able to move again, now that I don’t have to work so hard to hold myself up. The reprieve gives me that little bit of strength I have to lean into him and clutch the coat of his handsome black suit of fine-woven wool.
I bury my face in the whisper-soft linen of his dress shirt and gird my stomach.
It’d be just my luck to throw up on him right now.
Thank God his hold eases the nausea away.
I feel him bend over, and his breaths against my neck, my ear, my hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not quite a whisper. I don’t think a voice this deep can whisper. “Cover your ears, Elle. I need to be loud, and I don’t want to hurt you.”