Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
He leaves. He just leaves, that quickly. That suddenly. I busy myself with eating. I’m not lonely, but I miss him. And I felt as if he had something important to say to me.
Does a man like him ever settle down? Or is he destined to always answer the call, whenever he’s bidden.
I expect him back that evening, but he doesn’t return until the sun is rising on a new day. When he comes back, he’s weary but not drunk this time. I watch from my cocoon of covers as he undresses and prepares for bed, slides in next to me, and is fast asleep before he’s barely touched the pillow. He rises a few hours later and is gone again.
This goes on for two more days, me occupying myself in his room, food brought on trays. He’s had to postpone his trip to the school that he mentioned, but he doesn’t tell me why. His absence doesn’t bother me as it might bother others. I’m used to confinement and my own company. But I do miss him. I wish for something, anything at all that would give me some kind of morsel of his attention, but there’s nothing but his utter exhaustion and pervading absence. He replaces my phone that broke. I’m not very interested in using it, though.
When he finally comes back to me, I rise from where I’m reading to greet him, but when he steps into the room, his phone rings. He curses. Someone comes in behind him and slides a tray of food onto the table.
“What is it?” he snaps. He listens, and within seconds his brows draw closer together, and his gaze darkness. My heartbeat quickens watching the rapid, terrifying transformation. I must never forget that this man does wicked things I don’t know the half of. Not yet.
Here we go again.
“Motherfucker. I’ll kill the motherfucking bastards,” he growls. He clenches his phone so tightly his knuckles whiten, before he goes deadly calm. “Tell me everything.”
He stares at me, but doesn’t see me, his focus cast afar as he listens to the details. I watch his lips thin and his body tighten, and for that one brief moment, he looks like a man possessed. I don’t want to ever incite anger in him like this. I shiver in fear, wondering what horror that’s being relayed to draw out such rage in him.
“I’ll go now.” Then his gaze snaps to me. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. “Can’t leave the girl here, she isn’t safe. No. I don’t trust them. I don’t fucking trust anyone. I’ll take her tonight. Bring in our strongest guard and order them to arrive by nightfall.”
He hangs up his phone, curses again, and runs his hand through his dark brown hair. I want to soothe him, to somehow bring calm to the storm that rages within him. But I don’t speak. I don’t move. I wait for instruction.
I wonder if waiting on him helps or hinders. Does he need to know that I won’t leave? I couldn’t if I wanted to, but right now, that doesn’t matter.
He turns to me, as if just seeing me.
I’m not allowed to ask him what happened or what happens next, this much I know. He doesn’t speak at first, then runs his fingers on his phone, and I see words appearing. Texting, I think he calls it. He’s done this before, summoning someone who works for him. Pointing distractedly at the table, he waves an impatient hand at the tray.
“Eat. We’re leaving here within the hour and won’t have time to eat again until this evening.”
Trembling, I pull out a chair and eat without thinking, not tasting any of the food. It’s hard to swallow, my mouth is that dry, but I do what he says until my belly’s full. He opens the door to his room a moment later when someone knocks, and several servants come in with luggage bags. They rifle through the things that Maeve bought me, and I watch in fascination as they pack my clothing and the items I’ve stored in the bathroom efficiently. Next they pack his things.
I want to ask him questions, but I know he doesn’t want to speak right now, and he’s asked me not to question him before. Whatever he heard on the phone troubles him, and he’s doing what he thinks best. He walks up behind me and drapes his arms around me from behind, before he leans down and whispers in my ear. “You’re a good lass. You’ve not asked questions. I’ll remember this. It shows you trust me, or at the very least you’re learning your place. I’ll explain on the way.”
“Are you going to eat?” I ask him, pointing to the half tray of food that remains. He looks at the tray of food as if he’s surprised it’s there, before he leans in and kisses my forehead. Does my concern touch him?