Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 79462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“I’ll bring you coffee,” he says once he’s fully clothed. “And some medication. You’ll take it.”
“I will?” I’m not sure why I’m being combative. I really want the damn pain meds.
“You will,” he repeats. “You’ll also stop treating me like I’m the enemy.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m not.” He crosses his arms. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“And you really don’t get it either.” I give him a firm stare, but there’s no real malice behind it. I want that coffee and those meds, after all.
He turns and leaves. I collapse back on the pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. What’s the matter with me, anyway? If I look back on my time at this place, Jayson has been strangely pleasant toward me. Not exactly the ideal husband, especially not during that first meeting, but he also hasn’t been aggressive, abusive, demeaning, rude, or any of the other things I expected.
There have been a few moments of real connection. Yes, the sex stuff, sure, that was very nice and I’m still aching for more, but other things too. Like our conversation during dinner for example. I felt a real spark with him, watching his face in the candle light, laughing at his jokes, getting to know the man underneath that iron exterior.
He returns a few minutes later with a tray. Coffee, toast, and little white pills. I swallow them down with a sigh. “Alright, you’re not so bad,” I say, sitting up.
His eyes drift to my chest and yes, he notices my hard nipples. There’s a heat in his gaze, and I can’t pretend like I don’t enjoy it.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he says. “You and I are stuck together for at least a year. There’s no reason we can’t be civil.”
“Wow. You really do know how to woo a lady.”
“I’m not trying to woo you. If I wanted to woo you, I’d pin you against the wall and make you get down on your knees.”
“Been there, done that. Big yawn.”
He smirks and shakes his head. “You never shut it down, do you?”
“Shut what down?”
“The armor. The knives you keep around, ready to jab at me.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m sitting here in only a tank top and some old shorts. No armor at all.”
“You know what I’m saying. You’re more closed off than one of my soldiers, and they’re a bunch of PTSD-scarred thugs.”
“That isn’t true at all. It’s just that I don’t like you.”
He grunts and leans back on his hands, studying me. “Why not?”
“Sorry? We’ve been over this a dozen times. You killed my father.”
He takes a slow, deep breath, and blows it back out. For a second, I think he’s going to get up and leave—fine by me, I’m feeling awful and vulnerable, and the way he’s looking at me leaves a very much unwanted heat between my legs—but instead, he leans forward, expression intent.
“Three months ago, I was out to eat with several of my top lieutenants, including a man named Jackson Will. I grew up with Jackson, knew him back in school and brought him into the family business as my right hand. He came out to London with me, and together we built our empire, and we felt like we were going to rule the world. Nobody knew me better. I loved him like a brother. That night, three Grady soldiers burst into the restaurant, a place filled with civilians, and opened fire with submachine guns. They killed two of my men and I survived only because Jackson took bullets as he flipped over our table, creating a barrier between us and the shooters.”
He pauses there. His eyes go distant as he relives that moment, and I sit so still I can feel my heart in my toes. The pain in his tone is still immediate, the agony simmering beneath the surface. Three months of suffering. Three months in a world without his closest friend. I can imagine what he’s going through, if I’m being charitable, but I don’t want to feel empathy for this man.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, wishing he’d stop.
But he doesn’t. “I killed the shooters. Took them down myself. The room was filled with screams, broken glass, and blood. It smelled horrible. Like sulfur and death. At least three other civilians were shot, and I think one of them died. I can’t remember anymore. All I can think of is throwing my gun aside and dragging Jackson into my arms. I held him during his last moments, held him tight and tried to talk him through it as the life bled from his veins. I watched him die, felt him go, and that’ll haunt me for the remainder of my days.” He meets my gaze and I see that horror in him, the moment still lingering like a shadow he can’t shake. “Your father ordered that hit. He tried to kill me, but he took so much worse instead, and if I hadn’t been successful then he would’ve tried again, and again, and again, until the entire city was on fire. Your father wasn’t going to stop unless I stopped him.”