Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
“But she remembers me.” I let my gaze float to Ava, who regards me with the attention of a parasite.
Maybe a ghost.
Or am I the ghost?
After all, her last memory of me is of that night at the club, where she hated me.
She still has throughout our marriage, so that’s not a major issue, per se.
Conveniently, or maybe inconveniently, depending on your angle, Ava erased all her memories from before our wedding to the latest incident that nearly decimated it.
The good news is that she hasn’t and will not find out about how this happened.
The bad news is that she won’t accept it easily and will fight tooth and nail to discover the truth.
“She still doesn’t remember the marriage,” Cecily supplies in an amicable tone that somehow manages to calm any situation.
Not this one, though.
Besides, Cecily is one of the reasons Ava is an absolute wreck of a human being. And while she hasn’t made her worse, she hasn’t contributed to making her better. Cecily’s constant attempts at placating and spoiling her like some form of a blind mother hen have always irked me.
I should probably text Jeremy so he’ll whisk her away from here as fast as possible. Save us both the pending headache.
“Do you want to go with your parents? Is that a wise thing to do?” I ask my wife and she starts to nod, but then she stops.
I was listening to their entire conversation from outside. And yes, Ariella is a mere amateur compared to me and my superior stalking skills, but I digress.
I heard the nutcase telling Ava about the fuck-up she caused in her family and could hear the guilt in Ava’s voice, even if she didn’t remember it. Besides, she was pretending to be asleep last night when Aunt Silver and Cole—not calling that man Uncle unless he calls me son; report me to the petty police—were arguing about her meds and the new therapist.
An entirely pointless conversation, if you ask me, considering I’m her legal guardian and neither of them has a say in her treatment options anymore.
She doesn’t have a say either.
As they talked, Ava turned away, but I saw the way she clenched the sheets and hid further into the pillow. And while she’s an expert at hiding from the world, she can’t escape me.
I’m neither a limp-dicked thick fucker burning for her attention nor a worshipper at her sparkly-pink glitter altar.
She’s neither my benefactor nor my owner.
She is, however, my wife. My fucking property.
Rare calm cloaks her features as she stands up. The hospital’s plain gown swallows her with the ugliness of a potato sack, and yet she still manages to make it look effortlessly elegant.
The collar of the gown slips off her shoulder, hinting at the creamy skin that’s begging to be marked, owned, fucking turned red.
I drag my gaze to her face that’s pasty white due to her nearly dying on me. Her shiny blonde hair falls to her back in slick waves, and like always, she shakes it a bit before running her fingers through it, then pulls it up in a makeshift bun like whenever she’s ready to tackle something.
It’s always the little things. The jut of her chin, the gentle move of her hips, the goddamn way she ties her hair.
And yet those little things are enough to prove she’s here. Right across from me.
Not at the bottom of the stairs.
Not in a pool of blood.
Not dead.
“I’ll get ready,” she says without emotion.
“You’re going back with him?” Ariella whisper-yells. “But why? I can drive you home.”
Before I can correct that Ava’s home is now my house—not that she would admit it out loud—she waves Ariella away. “There’s no need.”
I don’t like the note in her voice. It’s not a resignation to her fate. It’s the very intention to fight it until the very end.
The irony.
I resist the urge to smile. Then again, I never liked Ava for her meekness. I’ve had too many willing people in my life. It’s refreshing to be presented with a fight for a change.
At every turn.
For every word.
Yes, I contemplate breaking her neck sometimes, but that neck is too pretty to be broken.
As if sensing my murderous gaze, she looks up and narrows her eyes.
For all intents and purposes, Ava is every man’s wet dream. She possesses a model’s face that somehow can also pass for an innocent girl next door. Rosebud lips in her favorite color—pink. Big, intrusive blue eyes that rival the North Sea’s depths and the sky’s hollowness during an eclipse. A body made for fucking. And an attitude that will get her killed—and almost has countless times.
I’d like to take the opportunity to applaud my immaculate resolve to keep that pretty head in place all this time.
It takes massive control and self-discipline to remain calm in her provoking presence.