Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“I don’t want you indebted to me.” I pause for shallow, torturous seconds. “And I never had sex with Ren.”
I can at least tell him that much.
His thick brows draw together over his darkened eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It never happened. I managed to leave without doing that.”
The line deepens in his forehead. “Then why the fuck did you make me believe that for all this time? The last image of you I have in my head is you being raped for my sake. Being traumatized for me! Did you enjoy tormenting me and coming over in my nightmares abused and bloodied?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why? Tell me why you did it? Why you left me?”
“I just…wanted to,” I mutter in a helpless attempt to have him drop the subject.
“Wanted to? I suppose you happened to marry Akira after you promised yourself to me because you also wanted to? Did you love him after you confessed your fake feelings to me, or was it before?”
“They were never fake.”
“Shut the fuck up and get the fuck out. I don’t even want to look at your face anymore.”
He throws my hand away and turns to his side, giving me his back.
I swallow the burn of his words and stand up. I don’t leave, though, because no matter how much he hates me, I don’t hate him.
Never did. Not even when he hurt me.
I’m at the door when his tired voice filters after me.
“I wish I’d never met you. I wish you’d never returned.”
I’m starting to wish that, too.
I always thought we were two unique pieces that fit together perfectly, but maybe we’ve been forcibly jamming ourselves into molds that don’t fit us.
Two wrongs don’t make a right.
And we’re too deviant and forbidden to ever be right.
32
Sebastian
Being ill sucks like a bitch. An inexperienced one who seems to be blowing your patience instead of your dick.
I groan as I open my eyes, then pause when I inhale the scent of lilies. A scent that shouldn’t be in my bed.
It doesn’t take me long to find the source. A small figure is huddled against my side in a fetal position. Her hands are wrapped around a towel and her long lashes flutter on her flushed cheeks.
The blue neon numbers on the clock on the nightstand read 3:24 a.m.
She stayed.
My mind is a blur of events and emotions, but I know I said some fucked-up shit that would make anyone bolt. Especially with her habit of leaving whenever she sees fit.
I meant each of those words, and yet, I slowly turn so I’m lying on my side, facing her.
She’s on the edge of the mattress, far enough away that she’s not touching me, but her warmth still douses me.
It’s different from the fever. Hers is potent, mixed with twisted emotions and carnal need.
It doesn’t matter how much I roughen her up or how long I take her. It doesn’t matter that I’ve fucked her in more positions than I can count or that I’ve filled her every hole with my cum.
The moment I’m done, I’m always in the mood to start again. To fuck her again. Own her again. Relieve my fucked-up emotions again.
But that’s the thing. The part about relieving emotions never happens. If anything, my rage has been blackening each time she walks out of the fucking door.
Back to her life.
To her damn husband.
I reach a hand out and stroke a strand of her ink-colored hair out of her face. She looks so peaceful when she’s asleep, like a porcelain doll.
And just like a doll, she’s breakable.
Still, discovering the fact that she was never forced to have sex with Ren seven years ago brought relief I didn’t think I would ever feel.
All this time, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the sacrifices she made at the time or the way she shook when she left.
She held her head high, even though she was trembling with fear. And my last sight of her was her back as she walked out the door.
Naomi mumbles something in her sleep before her eyes flutter open. They’re unfocused at first, dark with confusion. She blinks twice and her lips part.
Probably lost for words again.
We remain like that for a moment, with my hand in her hair and her eyes locked on mine.
It feels intimate in a fucking normal kind of way.
Like we’ve been waking up to each other’s faces for the past seven years.
“You didn’t leave,” I say slowly, carefully.
“You’re sick.” She reaches a hand out, then pauses. “I’m just going to check your temperature.”
She puts her palm against my forehead and my breathing deepens at the contact. She quickly retrieves it. “I think your fever’s gone.”
Her voice is light—joyous, even. And I don’t know why I want to catch it and trap it somewhere.