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)
It seemed like giving him just a little bit of myself was all he wanted.
I drank my sangria. “It’s good.”
He gave a nod in agreement, but his eyes remained focused on me. Intent and possessive, the way he used to be when our relationship first started, when I was the only thing that was ever on his mind.
But there was no amount of progress he could make to change the way I felt.
To change the fact that I hated him. I hated him for what he’d done to me, but I hated him more for what he’d done to Axel and his family. The way he’d destroyed the lives of innocent people to get his way.
A part of me hoped that Theo would come for me, but I knew that was just a dream. Once a few days turned into a week and he didn’t break down the front door, I knew he’d let me go. Not by choice, but because he had to.
Because Bolton was perfectly capable of killing an innocent child.
It hurt to be abandoned, but I knew it was the right decision.
The only decision.
The waitress brought our dishes then walked off.
We ate in silence, sometimes drinking our sangria between bites, exchanging looks across the table. Bolton stared at me constantly, wore his wedding ring the second I told him I would try again. He never took it off, not even when he worked out or showered. We slept in the same bed, but I always stuck to my side. If he spooned me from behind, I let it happen, but I never initiated affection.
“Do you still think about him?”
I stilled at the question because Bolton hadn’t mentioned Theo since we left. We’d started our new lives in Madrid, got swept up in the humidity and the culture. Bolton had always been a master of languages, so he spoke Spanish, French, and Italian. This place felt like home to him immediately.
I looked at him across the table.
He took a drink of his sangria as he waited for an answer.
“Sometimes, I guess.” All the time. Every morning when I first woke up. Throughout the day. When I lay there at night and tried to fall asleep. In my dreams. In the shower when I touched myself.
There was no anger in his look.
“Do you still think about Carson?” In case he was angry, I wanted to cancel out the rage and subtly remind him of his long-term relationship that he’d carried on behind my back when I was his wife.
“Not really.”
It was a cruel answer. “I know she passed away.”
He gave a slight shrug. “I warned her it would be dangerous, but she wanted to stay.”
“It sounds like she loved you.” That woman was so in love with my husband that she was willing to die for him. That should make me angry, but I felt nothing. I pitied her for giving her heart to someone who couldn’t care less about her.
“She did,” he said simply. “But there was only one woman I ever loved.” He looked at me as he said it, as if he expected me to melt into a puddle on the floor because it was so damn romantic.
Instead of hitting back with a scathing retort, I let it go. I’d tried to escape from this man so many times to no avail. Even the infamous Skull King couldn’t save me. I was tired of running. Tired of trying to change an unchangeable circumstance. So, I accepted it. Accepted that I’d had a great love that had only lasted months—but would burn in my heart forever.
“My guys tell me he’s spending time with a woman named Laura.”
It was like trying not to laugh at the funniest joke you’d ever heard. Trying not to scream even when you were so scared you pissed your pants. To keep a straight face and pretend that meant nothing to me was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. Maybe she was just one of his favorite whores. Maybe he assumed I was already in bed with Bolton. Maybe he was trying to move on as quickly as he could so it would hurt less. Whatever the reason might be, it hurt. “I loved him, but he didn’t feel the same way.”
Bolton’s eyes locked on my face as he grappled with that piece of information.
“So, I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
“If I could go back in time, I would take it all back.” For a man who said and did horrible things, he could seem so genuine in his apologies. He seemed sincere and full of contrition. Maybe he really meant what he said, but he could still flip on you a moment later. “You wouldn’t have met him, and none of this would have happened.”
I kept the pot of water at a simmer instead of a boil by validating his words, accepting his apologies when he gave them, even though they were bald-faced lies. But it seemed to work. Seemed to sheathe his anger. “I know.” At some point, I would run out of time and would have to get on my back and consummate the marriage. That would be a lot harder than accepting his apologies and making small talk over dinner.