Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
And while my brothers begin removing the license plate, Rocky strides angrily over to the pond’s rickety dock. His fury could melt the snow with each maddened step.
Rage. It boils at a higher temperature inside Rocky, but it’s quietly simmering in me, too. There is no vindication great enough to satisfy the cruelty of tonight. We can’t stick around long enough to even revel in someone’s misfortune.
I see him ache to rip the world to pieces, and it’s comforting to know I’m not alone.
Hot tears prick my eyes, and I chase after him.
Rocky screams out into the nothingness of the icy dark, and the guttural noise ricochets inside me like a stray bullet. Pain punctures the shield I think I’ve been wearing all night.
Carefully, I climb on the squeaking dock, my pulse racing. My blood on fire. “Rocky?”
He twists around, and swiftly, he cups my cheeks with two warm hands, looking deeply into me. My chest lifts with a strong breath. My heart pumps, and I wanted that prick to pay as much as Rocky did.
Really pay. To bleed more than just cash. If we had it our way, I wonder if he would’ve. I hang on to Rocky, holding his hands that encase my cheeks.
“Fuck. Him,” Rocky grits out, his eyes reddening and glassing.
“Fuck him,” I breathe into the frosty air, my voice breaking painfully.
Rocky slides his arm around me as I hug him. He’s bringing me closer in a tighter, fiercer embrace. He puts a hand on the back of my skull, like he’s afraid someone will come behind me and yank me away.
“I swear to God, Phoebe . . .” His voice sounds choked on my name, and he can’t finish what I think is a promise or a threat. “I swear to fucking God.” It comes out hot under his breath.
All I know is that I couldn’t do this without Rocky. We’re all the children of confidence men and women, living inside a train that hurtles forward with busted brakes and no signs of stoppage, but Rocky and I are in the same passenger car. We always have been. Sitting there together, peeking out of the opened door as the landscape whizzes past us, wondering where the hell we’re going.
And I could tell him.
Right here, I could tell him how I need him. I could tell him how tonight is better because of him. And tomorrow will be brighter because he’s there. But I can’t . . .
The words are balled in my throat. I’m afraid of being someone’s burden. I don’t want to saddle him with another bag of weight. It’s better if he knows I can do this on my own.
I can do this without him.
And maybe I can.
But maybe I’d hate every second of it.
His firm chest melds against my soft body while he’s holding me against him. And the speeding tempo of our pulses never slows, never dies down. We’re set on overdrive, me and him.
Destined for the thrill of a hunt. But also for the pain at the end.
When we slowly draw back, his gaze drops to my lips, and I remember the feeling of his lips against my lips—the desperation and longing. It swirls around us like a cyclone dipping from the sky. Snow kisses his hair as more flurries descend, but Rocky doesn’t kiss me again.
I don’t kiss him.
The job is over.
It’s strange to feel so bound to someone but to have never kissed outside of a con. Yet, the way his fingers hook mine is intimate and loving.
“What are you to me now?” I whisper.
He shakes his head, uncertain, but he grips my gaze. “I’m just your Rocky.”
My Rocky.
It overwhelms me for a long moment. “Quoting ancient history?”
“Not that ancient.”
“I was four.” I let out a pained laugh.
His name back then was Reed Donahue, an alias that had likely changed a handful of times since his birth.
The Tinrocks hadn’t even chosen the “Tinrock” family name until later—not until after I nicknamed Rocky. On a summer morning, we were playing in a garden, and I told him, “You’re Rocky.”
He said, “You’re Phoebe.”
My name was Natalia Abruzzo. The Graves weren’t the Graves yet either. But Rocky chose my first name—the one I’ve kept close all these years. Just like I chose his.
“No,” my four-year-old self told him with stubbornness. “You’re my Rocky.”
He was five, and he held my little four-year-old hand. “You’re my Phoebe.” He kissed my cheek.
I giggled.
Life was simple then. Four and five, playing in a fairy garden outside a multimillion-dollar mansion.
Back at the icy pond, as snow falls heavier, I whisper strongly, “You’re my Rocky.”
He’s hanging on to every word like we’ve flown to the past and brought the good, happy bits to the present, and his fingers curl around mine. Before I can also add that I’m his Phoebe, my brother calls us over.