Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
It’s dangerous letting myself think of him this way. I know it. I have to be careful, right?
He offers the briefest of apologetic smiles. “You didn’t ask for my life story.”
“But I’m here. And I’m not doing anything else, am I?”
He laughs a little at this, nodding before draining the rest of his milk. “That’s true. But still. I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I understand.” And I really do. I’m not just saying that to get closer to him or whatever. If there was ever an example of what happens to a person when they’re not allowed to feel things, it’s the man standing in front of me. Now I understand a little better those tiny glimpses of kindness that pop up now and then and how he quickly suppresses them or suddenly swings in the opposite direction and acts brutal and cruel. Maybe he was raised to think it was weak to feel things, to be kind. But his nature is another story. It wants to get out.
What am I doing? Humanizing him? Identifying with him? I might as well hand over my entire life at this point. I’m making it easy for him to dominate me, making up excuses in my head.
He leaves his mug in the sink, and I do the same, feeling a little awkward now. I don’t know if he feels the same way or if he just wants to put an end to this, but he clears his throat. “Come on. I need to get some sleep.”
I guess that’s his way of saying I have to get back to bed, too. I am tired, though. Whether it’s psychosomatic or not, the milk has relaxed me. I feel myself unwinding, my eyelids drooping a little as I climb the stairs.
He waits until I’m in bed, standing in the doorway. “Good night.” It feels funny hearing that when it’ll be morning pretty soon, but I murmur the same thing before resting my head on the pillow.
And when he closes the door, there is no clicking sound this time. He didn’t lock it.
20
ENZO
“So help me God, don’t make me regret this.” I unlock the passenger side door but hold her against the car before she can get in. “I mean that. Do not make me regret doing this.”
“I won’t, I promise.” As it is, she’s a little wide-eyed and shaken by my sudden announcement. I supposed it must have come as a shock that I’d want to take her shopping.
It’s a purely self-serving decision. I can’t have her walking around in my clothes all the time, and not only because she’s so damn tempting in them. What is it about a woman wearing oversized clothes that’s such a turn-on? She manages to look sexy, adorable, even.
And I can’t keep my eyes off her, to say nothing of my hands. I spent far too much time lying in bed after leaving the kitchen thinking about her, envisioning her holding a cup of milk with cinnamon sprinkled on top, dressed in an oversized shirt, and looking sweet and vulnerable.
Now isn’t the time to think about that. I have to be firm with her, as this is a huge risk. “If you so much as hint to anyone around us that you need help for any reason, it’s over.” I open the door and usher her inside, wasting no time getting behind the wheel. I don’t even want to give her an extra few seconds with the car door unlocked. The moment I’m inside, I slam the door and activate the locks.
“What do you mean it’s over?” She’s practically hugging the door, clearly nervous. Good. If she’s nervous, she’ll be less likely to do anything stupid. I wouldn’t trust her if she acted confident right now.
“It means I’ll chain you to the bed, naked, and you’ll stay there until our wedding day. Understood?”
Her head bobs up and down. “Understood.”
“Good.” I still have the feeling I’m going to regret this, but there’s no way around it. She needs things, including something to wear for our wedding.
Our wedding. I still can’t wrap my head around that. The thought of it leaves a bad taste in my mouth as I back out of the driveway and pull out of the development. Our wedding. I’m going to have to marry this woman.
The worst part is that I don’t feel nearly as bitter about that as I did before. And that’s dangerous, too. I can’t deny the fact that she’s growing on me. Moments like this morning in the kitchen, the two of us talking quietly, sharing bits of our past. That can’t be, it mustn’t be, but it happened. And it was so damn easy. We started talking, and I relaxed, and all of a sudden, I was saying things I’ve told hardly anyone. Almost no one knows about my mother, about how I came to live with my grandfather. I’ll be damned if anyone sees me as the poor little motherless boy.