Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
“Thank you, Blessing,” says Thomas, a nine-year-old boy who has been with us so long, I think of him as my little brother. “What are you going to eat?”
I ruffle his blond hair. “You’re a growing boy! Don’t worry about me.”
He looks down at his oatmeal eagerly but makes no move to pick up the spoon. “We all worry about you.” A beat passes. “You look really tired lately.”
“Me?” I try to act surprised, but I’m not. I saw my reflection in the mirror this morning and barely recognized the exhausted girl staring back at me. “I’m just fine. Don’t think about anything but getting stronger. You’re going to try out for the hockey team in January, aren’t you?”
He ducks his head and smiles, obviously pleased I remember. “Yeah.”
“I can’t wait to attend a game.” I poke him playfully in the belly. “Better get eating.”
“Okay, Blessing,” he says reluctantly, finally digging into his oatmeal.
I manage to maintain my smile until I’m out of Thomas’s room, but it vanishes when I turn into the hallway, my hunger pains reaching a fever pitch. I stumble into the wall, unsure if I’m shivering from the cold any longer…or if it’s fear. How much longer can I keep these children fed? Can I care for them if I can’t even feed or clothe myself?
For a brief moment, I allow myself to imagine the immense warmth I experienced in Edison’s bed last night. I recall the tantalizing scent of food that hung in the air throughout his house, no doubt emanating from his party. What if I went there now and asked for his help? He called for me last night as I ran away. Maybe he cares about me…a little? Would he help us?
No.
No, before he put his finger inside of me, I swore a bond was in place between us, formed quickly and wildly in one glance. One touch. But I must have been wrong.
Those kinds of things don’t happen. Especially to a destitute orphan.
A bell rings from upstairs. It’s Cassie. She has a sprained ankle and can’t come down to prepare her own food, so I need to bring it up to her. Despite my exhaustion, I spur myself into action, scooping oatmeal into a bowl, fretting over the lack of raisins—
A sound of a car engine roaring to a stop outside of the orphanage makes me freeze.
The only people who ever come here are social workers and we’re not due a visit. Pretty much the entire world has stopped working for the remainder of the year, since Christmas is three days away.
Who could that be?
I set down the spoon carefully and cross the creaking floor to the front door, peering out warily. We are one young adult and a house of children. It never escapes me for a moment that we’re unsafe. That we could be a target for predators, so I keep the latch engaged while peeking into the deserted street in front of the orphanage.
My pulse goes haywire when I see who is approaching.
In an impeccable blue suit, snow-white shirt and gold watch…it’s Edison Scrooge.
“Oh, my goodness,” I breathe, backing away from the door.
I’m alarmed when my loins throb, my nipples waking up against the front of my nightshirt. What is he doing here? I suppose it wouldn’t have been difficult to find me after I mentioned the orphanage last night, but why has he come?
At six o’clock in the morning, to boot?
When Edison knocks, my hand flies to my throat, mouth drying up.
“Blessing.” He knocks again. “Angel, are you in there?”
My body begins to cry out for his heat, almost like it knows he’s the ultimate source of comfort. Even though he hurt me. Even though he’s cruel and didn’t believe me. I shouldn’t answer the door. I meant it when I said I never wanted to speak with him again. But my body betrays me, shivering, aching to be back in his arms. And in the end, my body wins.
Disappointed in myself, I unlock the door and ease it open, staring up, up, up at the harshly beautiful man who took my virginity with his middle finger last night. He’s so tall—and broad—I must have been too delirious to notice last night.
“Angel,” he breathes, sounded winded, taking an eager step toward me.
I lunge backward out of his reach, crossing my arms over my middle protectively.
“Who is there?” comes a chorus of voices from all over the house, boys and girls, young and old. “Blessssssiiiiing.”
I’m horrified when my eyes fill up with tears. It’s at this very moment that the overwhelming responsibility that has been placed on my shoulders increases to an unbearable weight. “There is no money. There is no food. I don’t know what to do,” I hiccup to this man I should hate. “Everyone is c-counting on me.”