Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
There’s another truth on the heels of that one. He's lied to me about a lot of things, but there's one point on which I believe him: he's the only thing keeping me alive. Somehow, I survived the hit on my parents. Only thanks to Cynthia's bravery am I still breathing. If Samuele Russo still wants me dead—and I have no doubt of that considering what I've seen from him so far—Christian is the only thing keeping me alive. And if something happens to him, that's it for me. I don't stand a chance.
Son of a bitch. I hate him, but I also need him. The thought of it turns my stomach almost as much as the memory of thinking I was happy with him does. I wonder how many people he killed before I ever met him.
I'm still thinking this over when he returns, dressed in clean clothes, his hair still wet. The sight of him like this used to make my heart flutter. Now I don't know what to think.
“What have you been up to today?” he asks, rubbing the towel over his hair.
The question is so ridiculous that it makes me laugh. “What does it look like? I've been here. I was about to start reading.” I hold up the book.
He stops drying his hair, now frowning at me. Great. What did I do wrong this time? “Would you like to go out?”
Once again, I blurt out a laugh before I know what's happening. “Really?” I'd venture. His expression doesn't change. He's not smirking or laughing. Could he be sincere?
“You could use a little sun, I imagine.” He looks me up and down. “And new clothes. You deserve to choose something you want to wear. I had to choose your clothes for you, but I never expected them to be all you ever wore.”
“You want to take me shopping?” Can I believe him? I want to.
“I told you, Siân, you don't have to be a prisoner here. That's not how I want it to be.” He sits on the edge of the bed. “You aren't here to be my slave. I know we can be happy together. Let me show you how it could be, how I want it to be.”
It will mean playing along. Not searching for any chance to escape. Can I do that? If it means getting out of here for an afternoon and having a look around, it's worth it. “Okay. I'm ready whenever you are.”
I'm so happy for the chance to get out and act like a normal person that it doesn't hit me until we're in the car. This is the first time in fifteen years I've explored my home country. I don't remember much of anything—up until this point in my life, only brief flashes of half-remembered moments have reminded me of my former life.
It's a brilliant, sunny afternoon without a cloud in the sapphire sky. I admire it along with the hills and mountains all around us. The car weaves along a road cut straight from the mountainside. Beyond it is a sharp drop-off and a sparkling body of water. I don't know which body it is, and I'm too afraid of a sarcastic answer to ask.
It doesn't matter. Right now, my heart is lighter than it's been in days. I don't want to ruin it.
All the while, I feel him watching me. The energy in the car is easy, though. There's still something weighing on him, but it's not bothering him right now. Maybe he's already forgotten whatever it was he did earlier to those bloody clothes. I wish I could forget seeing them.
We end up in a plaza where dozens of people wander cobblestone streets, ducking in and out of shops, and eat at tables on the sidewalk. It's almost too perfect. And it brings back a memory I’ve had buried deep in my subconscious all these years. I used to come to places like this with Cynthia—and my father. The three of us walked around, window shopped. I had a gelato, didn't I? Chocolate. It was so good, and I had to eat it quickly to keep it from running over my fingers. I can almost hear Dad’s indulgent laughter along with Cynthia’s soft giggles while she searched in her purse for a tissue to clean me up. How could I have forgotten that?
“Is everything all right?” When Christian places a hand on my arm, the memory pops like a bubble. But I still feel its warmth.
“Memories,” I explain with a shrug. “It's crazy.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. What's it like, being home?”
“Is it really home if I spent more of my life in the States than I did here?”
“Home is always home. No matter how far you go or for how long.” Something in his voice tells me he's not talking about me now. I wish I understood him. If he would only open up a little, I might be able to.