Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
No. I like the sign of ownership.
After I cover him, I shove the old sheets into the washing machine and then hit the cold cycle.
Once that’s done, I hunt for my clothes and put them on. For some reason, I find my feet leading me back to the bedroom like a magnet. I stand at the entrance, staring at Nikolai.
A part of me wants to stay, maybe not in the same bed since that’s…strange, I suppose. But just around.
That contemplation shatters when the image from earlier comes back like a curse and I physically force myself to walk to the lift.
This small moment of pleasure is all the reprieve my demons can offer.
I can’t let him see me like this.
And he won’t.
Because I’m fucking fine.
17
NIKOLAI
I knew something was fucking wrong when I woke up in bed.
Me? In a fucking bed?
Hello, Satan. This is Kolya reporting live from somewhere in hell and telling you to kindly fuck off. We’re not ready to go yet.
I blink a few times and the room, that’s definitely not some edgy hellhole, comes into view.
The penthouse…?
I sit up with a sudden jerk, all sleep disappearing from my eyes.
Nah, fuck no. I was clearly sitting outside the bathroom waiting for Bran to finish his shower and then…what? I don’t remember going to bed.
I wouldn’t go to bed or cover myself, not even if I were drunk. That’s just blasphemy.
My face breaks into a grin. Does this mean Bran carried me to the bed? I inspect the clean sheets that I certainly didn’t change and yup, definitely him. He’s organized to the point of being a bit neurotic. Or a lot, depending on your definition of the word.
Now, I want to kick myself in the ass for not feeling him carry me, wrap his arms around me, and cover me. Fuck. I’m getting hard at the thought.
My Prince Charming is actually stronger than he looks. Even Jeremy and my cousins don’t carry or move me when I fall asleep in unusual places or situations.
The images of him touching and placing me up here are muddied by the other lingering thought. I stand up and don’t bother putting any clothes on as I stride to the living room. “Lotus flower?”
I know he’s not there before I search. There’s no trace of his clothes, his presence, or anything remotely similar. If it weren’t for the itch he left beneath my skin last night, I wouldn’t think he’d been here. He even washed the sheets that carried his scent, as if he wanted to erase what happened from memory.
Not fucking possible.
Last night was the best sex of my life, and it’s not about the sex per se, though that was fucking hot. It’s about him.
The way he cried out my name and held on to me and kissed me. The way he let me in. Even demanded it.
Why the fuck did I think he’d choose to stay this time?
He doesn’t. It’s not what he does.
It’s not what I usually want, either. I don’t like sharing space with my fuck buddies outside of sex. They’re welcome to stay the night in the Heathens' mansion, but only if they’re not in my immediate vicinity.
So why the fuck do I feel any other way about Bran?
Maybe it’s the fact that you call him that and a few other nicknames, not to mention the fact that you got this fucking place just so he’d feel safe away from everyone else?
Yeah, so I did that. He’s always paranoid about people and their meaningless fucking opinions, so I thought he’d feel more comfortable in a place that’s only for us. I mean, for him to meet me here.
There is no us.
Apparently, he didn’t feel safe enough to stay.
I stroke my necklace and catch a glimpse of the clock. Ten a.m.
Motherfucker.
I missed the morning run for the second morning in a row.
It’s true that I haven’t been sleeping much the past couple of nights, but I shouldn’t have overslept and missed the highlight of my day.
My movements are lethargic as I search for my phone. I scan the texts at the top, but ignore them when I don’t find his name.
Then I open IG and find his usual story at five thirty sharp. Jesus Christ. The man is a fucking running machine.
The first story ends and the second shows a canvas with a few haphazard red lines. Not sure what those mean, but red is good. Right? Well, it’s good to me because it represents blood and violence. Not sure golden-boy Bran feels the same.
I pull out the text exchange I have with him and type, Why the fuck did you run away again?
But then delete it.
That sounded desperate and clingy even to my own ears. Fuck me.
Chill, Kolya, dude. You’re giving the Sokolov name a bad rep.
Though that’s fucking impossible now that I’ve claimed Bran. It was supposed to be just a fuck. I’ve always fucked. Fucking ended at the moment of release.