Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Then I drag my hands back through my hair—hair that’s extra soft from whatever girlie shampoo he used on it. I never think about stuff like that and just buy whatever’s cheap and functional.
Let go. I’ll take care of everything. You don’t have to do a thing.
I wrap myself in a blanket and slide off the bed, padding to the window. The bird flies away when I press my forehead to the glass, staring down several stories of sheer grey-green stone. My chest cinches tight. I can’t just do that. Let go. He doesn’t know what he’s asking. What seemed so natural in the moment feels impossible now. I clench. I’ve clenched all my life.
When Mom got sick. When Dad said it was up to us to save her. I clenched, got down to it and studied my ass off. Mom died and I clenched even harder, hold it all in, don’t let anyone see, Dad needs you, be strong for him, for all the people still struggling with Battleman’s disease.
Gods, I literally have to take medication for constipation I’m so damned clenched all the time. I know, sexy. It’s just my normal.
Until him. Until last night.
I mean, the medical exam was one thing, but then there was the bath. He stayed clothed both times, but his hands on my body were as intimate as anything I’ve ever… My eyes drop closed at the memory of his caresses.
He did exactly what he said. Dirtied me, making me come over and over and then washing me only to flip me to another position in the tub and make me come another way. Until his touch felt like the most natural thing in the world. Until I was pruned and so exhausted, I barely remember him tucking me into bed like a sleepy, compliant kitten.
I step away from the window. My hand shakes as I brush my hair behind my ear. Then I look around for my hair tie. I always wear my hair in a bun. A tight bun.
Clench.
My hair tie is nowhere to be found. Neither is my purse where I always carry plenty of extras.
Instead my hair fluffs around me in an unruly mess. Not a complete mess. It’s brushed. …He brushed it last night before tucking me into bed.
The wave of relaxation that washes over me even at the memory of his touch calms some of the panic that’s been creeping in…until that itself freaks me out. What the hell? Nothing relaxes me! Nothing and no one! I’ve tried everything. Meditation, wine, hot baths… but shit, thinking about baths just reminds me of last night, again.
I’ve got to get the hell out of here or I’m just gonna go nuts battling with my own thoughts. I’m exhausted and I just woke up. I’ll go stir-crazy if I sit here much longer.
I pull on a soft sweater and another pair of thick leggings and socks and head for the door.
I pause when I reach out to touch it, sure it will be locked. Even after last night? Then I scoff at myself. You think that changed anything? Really?
But when I grab the knob, it turns easily.
Not locked.
I push through and then step out into the forbidding castle, squinting to see in the dimly lit corridor.
At the far end of the corner, light beams in diagonally from a high window, making dust motes dance in the air. But even as I walk towards it, the light falters and I hear thunder rumble overhead.
I shiver and think about calling out hello? But no, I’m not ready to see the Beast again so soon. Besides, how hard can it be to find the kitchen and get myself something to eat? My stomach rumbles, urging me on. This place might be big, but the kitchen will always be down, right? On the first floor or maybe the basement? That’s how old places like this were built? Upstairs/Downstairs kinds of arrangements?
I wrap my arms around myself and when I come to the end of the corridor and open a heavy door to a stairwell that heads up and down, I hurry down the stairs.
Damn, my feet are freezing. I wish I had something more than socks. It just makes me hurry faster. I pass one landing and keep going down. I was on the second or third floor, right? I think so, judging from when I looked out the window earlier.
When I come to the landing for what I think is the first floor, I keep going down. This has to be a servant’s stairwell, for as little frills as it has—I run my hand along down the railing as I go and then grimace—and as much dust has gathered. I take it the Beast doesn’t have a cleaning staff or call in a service. I wipe my hands on my leggings as I get to the bottom of the stairs and the dust smears on the soft black fabric.