Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
His eyes lock on my eyes.
He notices the blood, probably smeared across my forehead, cheeks, caked in my hair.
“Not mine,” I say quietly. “Animal.” Most likely.
He’s still coming forward.
He’s still committed and unwavering.
I’m still unmoving, clutching the knife. Unable to let go.
We both know what Nate being the stalker actually means. Jane and Maximoff trust so few people, and Nate was granted access to their townhouse. To their family. To all of their personal things. He abused a power, invaded their safe space, which is violating on so many fucking levels.
And yet, Maximoff is only looking at me, his empathetic eyes redden. Not letting rage eat at him, not letting this fester, but I’d been carrying this demon. This draining, leeching motherfucking thing.
He sees.
Shit, he’s known.
And it’s still clung to me.
Maximoff comes behind me. His biceps and forearms slide around my chest and abs. He helps me rise.
His fingers skate along mine, the knife still firm in my grip. “Farrow.”
I drop the knife. I blink.
And I breathe. But I don’t touch him. My hands are stained red. Blood all fucking over me.
With his chest to my back, he pulls me away from Nate. We near the brick wall, and his heart thuds against my body. And very strongly, he says, “It’s over, Farrow.”
Four months of sleeplessness, of an agonizing unknown and obsession that clawed deep under my skin. Gone.
All of it.
Relief just crashes into me at his words, and I shut my eyes. Something wet and hot rolls down my jaw. I breathe out, and just as I turn to face Maximoff, the door squeaks open.
Thatcher slips inside, his features set sternly, and I expect him to acknowledge me as part of a crime scene.
But he just talks into his mic. “Thatcher to Tri-Force, we need you at Jane and Maximoff’s townhouse.”
I wipe my hands on my pants. That’s not helping. Since Maximoff wrapped his arms around me, blood stains his bare chest and his hands too.
I’m not loitering here. Quickly, I tell Thatcher I’ll return, but we’re showering before security arrives. Before I need to rehash the events to everyone.
Maximoff and I exit, as quiet as possible but hurried, and we’re in the small bathroom. I crank the shower on. Hot water rains on the tiles. I’m not looking in that mirror.
We keep our clothes on and slip into the glass shower stall. Water pelts us, and I comb my fingers through my hair. He tries to help scrub the blood out of the strands.
Pink water washes into the drain at our bare feet. His skin tanned from the sun, mine fair, but the tops of my feet are inked with two nautical wheels.
He passes me a bottle of shampoo. One scrub later, and I’m sure it’s not coming out. The white strands will stay tinted red. Maximoff knows too, his forest-greens set back on me.
“I’ll dye it,” I tell him.
“I can get it.” He turns to leave.
I catch his broad shoulder. “Not yet.”
Maximoff faces me again, and I can’t stop staring at him, water dousing both of us. His chest rises in a heady breath.
My hand ascends to the back of his head, and he clutches my neck. Our foreheads nearly meet.
I can’t lose this guy, and he’s alive. He’s alive. Not hurt, not injured, he’s breathing right in front of me.
Maximoff licks his lips. “I didn’t listen to your fucking text.”
“No shit,” I murmur, and he lets out a short laugh—but his eyes melt over me. We’re drawing closer, closer. And more serious, I whisper powerfully, “I’m glad.”
He holds me stronger; my grip is tighter, and we pull towards each other abruptly, chest slamming against chest. As though we’re trying to connect as deeply physically as we are emotionally, the intensity rattling me, and I cup his face. His fingers claw at my shoulders. We spin, wrestling for more, and my back hits the tiled wall.
We haven’t kissed, but he’s already devoured me.
“Maximoff,” I breathe against his mouth.
His eyes scream I fucking love you. “Don’t let go,” he orders.
“I’m not.” I’m not.
“Neither am I,” he assures me.
“Good.”
And I realize and feel something. I would’ve self-destructed without him. He’s been the prince in knight’s armor.
Protecting me.
46
FARROW KEENE
“Maybe I should go into the nunnery,” Jane says softly while lying on the Victorian loveseat. She rests her head on Maximoff’s lap and digs a spoon into a pint of chocolate chip ice cream. “That way I won’t make any more dreadfully bad choices.”
“Yeah,” I say, “don’t do that.” While I sit across from them on the coffee table, I balance a mirror on my knees. A piece of jet-black dyed hair falls to my lashes as I fix my hooped lip piercing. Nate’s fist must’ve caught my mouth. My bottom lip is a little bit swollen.
It’s only been three hours since I knocked Nate unconscious.