Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
I entered my dark bedroom and slipped the watch off my wrist and left it on the dresser. I left my gun beside it, along with the knife kept hidden from sight in my jeans. The belt was next and then the shoes were kicked off, the jeans at the end.
I was so tired I didn’t notice that someone was already in my bed.
She stirred at my approach, giving a quiet gasp in fright, like I was the intruder in her bedroom.
I set my phone on the nightstand as I looked at her, too tired to ask all the questions that came to mind. She always stayed in her bedroom unless I explicitly invited her here. This was my space. Not open to the public.
“I—I had a nightmare. I came in here to see if you were home, but you weren’t.”
“So, you decided to stay?” I couldn’t keep the derision out of my tone. “In my private room?”
The sleepy haze slowly passed as she absorbed my anger. She sat up, wearing an oversized pink shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would mind.”
“I do mind. I don’t barge into your room, so don’t barge into mine.”
“I didn’t go through your things. I just got in bed—”
“I don’t give a shit,” I snapped. “Did I say you were free to come and go? I said I would tell you if I wanted you gone, so I’m telling you now. Entry into my personal space is only allowed with permission.” I didn’t know why I was being such an asshole right now. The sight of her waiting in my bed should turn me on, not piss me the fuck off.
Shocked by my outburst, she took a second to get out of the bed. “You let me stay in here before. Let me paint. Let me sleep in. Let me stay for days at a time—”
“Different circumstances.”
A fiery rage replaced her meek sleepiness. “Under these circumstances, you said you would try, but you’re doing the exact opposite of trying. You’re trying to sabotage this before we’ve even had a chance. Congratulations—it’s working.” She turned and stormed out of my bedroom barefoot, with the bottom part of her ass showing where her shirt ended.
I gave a quiet sigh, pissed at what, I didn’t know. Her. Me. Everything.
Mostly me. “Astrid.”
The door slammed shut, and she was gone.
I stood there beside the bed, looking at the rumpled sheets from where she’d slept. I used to share it with someone else, but just for six weeks. She’d somehow claimed the room as her own with just her spirit and her smell. A vase of fresh flowers was always on her nightstand. She took off her wedding ring every night before she went to sleep and left it in a little stone bowl next to the flowers.
The beauty of the room had changed with a beeping monitor and needles in her skin. A full-time nurse who made her comfortable. The pain at the end had been unbearable, so they’d pushed all the drugs they could so she could die in comfort.
I’d watched her take her last breath…and felt her hand go limp in mine.
It was noon when I knocked on Astrid’s door.
I would have normally slept until the late afternoon, but the shitshow from last night had made me wake up far earlier than usual.
I was met with silence.
“Astrid?”
Nothing.
I turned the handle and stepped inside.
She was gone.
For some idiotic reason, I’d assumed that she would be here. That she would have called in sick to work because my tirade had ruined her day. But she was probably eager to get away from me, the way she used to get away from Bolton.
I’d never had a high opinion of myself, but it was pretty fucking low right now.
I got dressed and drove to the gallery. The car I’d loaned to her was there, a limited-edition Bugatti that an art dealer shouldn’t be able to afford. She’d lost her car in the fire, along with all her other valuables. I felt partially responsible for that.
I let myself inside and found her sitting at her desk, her eyes focused on her computer screen like she didn’t notice me, even though the door beeped when it opened. Her fingers typed on the keyboard quickly as she wrote out her message.
I stood and waited, arms crossed over my chest, my eyes hard on her face.
She continued to type like I didn’t exist.
“Sweetheart.”
Her fingers stopped, but she didn’t look at me, just took a breath. “What?”
“Look at me when you talk to me.”
She defied me and kept her eyes on the screen.
“I won’t ask again.”
With a look of raw viciousness, she lifted her eyes and looked at me.
Behind the expression of rage, I could see the pain, see how much I’d hurt her. “Let’s talk.” I nodded toward the gallery where the couches and chairs were arranged across the floor.