Total pages in book: 205
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
“Yes, it is. You’re tired, and we need another shower.” He swats my butt. “Come on.”
I let him pull me from the bed. He does all the work, gathering the towels and clothes, guiding me to the shower, cleaning all the sore bits, and drying us off.
After all that, I’m so ready to pass out. The hot water zapped the last of my strength.
“I feel different.” He pauses with a hand on the bathroom doorknob. “Dangerous.”
I yawn through a smile. “How is that different?”
“I don’t want them near you. Doesn’t matter that they’re my brothers. I’m twitchy with the urge to kill them if they so much as look in your direction.”
I should probably have that talk with him about my feelings.
Soon.
“We’ll talk about that when we’re rested.” I pinch his nipple—the least he deserves for never wearing a shirt to bed.
“You’re sleeping with me, not in Kody’s bed.”
“Okay.” I don’t have the energy to argue about sleeping arrangements.
Fingers interlaced, he leads me to Kody’s room and tucks me into the empty bed. A few feet away, Wolf and Kody don’t stir, their soft breaths signaling their slumber in the dark.
Leo joins me, his body a warm wall against my back with a leg wedged possessively between mine. I feel safe, cherished. Loved.
We haven’t said the words, but we expressed them, deeply, honestly. For hours.
And not once did I think about my husband.
56
Monty
—
I can’t sleep.
I haven’t had a full night’s rest in weeks.
Months.
Seventy-three days, to be exact.
Given the message I just received, that won’t change anytime soon.
Wilson: No update
Nothing.
I hired the best private investigator money can buy, and every day, he delivers a sum of nothing.
How does a pregnant trauma nurse from Sitka, Alaska, disappear without a trace? That was her intention, no doubt. But how?
If she changed her name, she would need fake IDs and forged documents. She doesn’t have the connections for that. She doesn’t have the resources to cover her tracks.
She doesn’t have my resources.
None of this sits well with me.
The pain. The sucking, gutting pain from her absence doesn’t sit well with me, either.
I can’t breathe without her. Can’t sleep without her. Can’t fucking live without her.
Fuck this pain. It’s everywhere. In my head. In my chest. In every bone and appendage, including my dick.
Especially that.
I hate her for leaving me, and that hatred cleaves through me with poisonous fangs, raging in my mind and eating me alive.
But worse than that is the burning, all-consuming vitriol I feel toward myself.
I drove her away. The best thing in my life. I hurt her so badly she left and made damn sure I couldn’t find her.
I did this.
Sitting on the back porch beneath the awning, I shiver in the draft of sleeting rain. It falls in icy sheets, turning my island into gloomy gray glass.
She hates the rain. Utterly despises the snow. My logical mind says she went south, but my gut?
My gut screams to look closer to home.
According to my airline and government connections, she hasn’t been a passenger on any known flights, commercial or private. Maybe she bought a car in cash. Maybe she hitchhiked.
Maybe she’s still in Alaska.
Wishful thinking.
I type back a text.
Me: Have you checked the employment records of every hospital in the country?
Wilson: Still working through that list. Started with California as you requested.
Me: Work faster or I’ll find someone who will.
He has a team of people helping him, and it’s still not enough. At this rate, it will take months.
I don’t know how much money she has. Never bothered to look into her cash savings. She hasn’t touched her credit cards, bank accounts, or investment funds.
She knows I’m monitoring them, that I’ll track every transaction.
But she’ll need money, eventually. And health care.
For herself and our baby.
Our baby.
She must be in her second trimester by now, and I’m missing it.
Missing her.
How can I sleep in the bed we shared while she’s out there somewhere, alone, reckless as hell, carrying my child?
I can’t.
No doubt she’s doing just fine without me. She can handle anything, conquer any obstacle. She’s the strongest person I know. So damn strong and independent.
Also, terribly young and naïve. She has much to learn, to experience about the world. I’m supposed to be there with her, learning with her, growing with her, becoming more.
She keeps me young and makes me whole.
No matter what happens, she will endure this thing I’ve done to her. She’ll overcome it. Outlast it. But I can’t say the same for myself. With each passing day, the pain grows more intense, finding new angles, new ways to get in.
Fucking hell, I miss her. Crave her. Fantasize about her all day and night.
Seventy-three days without her. Without feeling those vivid green eyes on me. Without kissing that gorgeous smile. Without clashing with that sexy temper. Without falling asleep beside her soft body. Without fucking her whenever and however I please.