Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
The color of his knuckles has turned white and I can’t help but squirm at the forceful grip he has on his pen. I can’t help but think, how would it feel if he gripped me that forcefully?
If he really pushed me into a dark alley.
“Did you confront them?”
Again, there’s nothing wrong with his voice. It’s as cool as always. But I can’t figure out what’s going on with his body. It’s getting tighter and tighter.
What’s happening to him?
I hope he’s getting mad on my behalf. I’d really like him to.
I sweep my sweaty bangs off my forehead. “What, those kids?”
“Those kids? Your boyfriend and Zoe? Either?”
“Yeah. I kinda did. At least, the kids. When I was younger. A lot younger, and things they said hurt me. Sometimes I’d push them off the swing at the park when no one was looking. Hid their notebooks or their lunches at school. And sometimes when I was really angry, I’d punch them. Especially boys. In their junk.”
The glint in his eyes is admiration; I see it. It warms me.
I actually did do those things. I never admitted to doing them, though. I can’t remember if I was ever punished for them. I only know that I denied it to the teachers, to my mom, to everyone. To the point that I forgot I ever did them.
Until now.
Until he asked, and I told him. Just like that.
He’s breaking something free inside me. All the locked boxes. All the chained beasts. Simon Blackwood is setting them free and he hasn’t even made the effort.
Why is it so effortless? Giving him pieces of me.
I make a fist and show him, repeating his words from last time, “I’m dangerous.”
“You are, aren’t you? A little warrior,” he murmurs, his grip around his pen loosening. “Although that’s not how you make a fist.”
“It’s not?”
He shakes his head.
I open my palm, splaying my fingers. “Will you teach me?”
For a few moments, he doesn’t say anything, but then he stands up. The chair squeaks and his shoes click as he rounds the table and approaches me.
I stand too, my heart probably squeezed between the bones of my ribs, trying to fly out.
Stopping a couple of feet before me, he looks down. How is it that even without a single expression on his face, I feel like he’s telling me something? Only I don’t know what, exactly, but every part of me is listening.
It’s crazy. Not the useless kind but the kind that’s stealing my breaths.
“Give me your hand,” he commands.
“Why?” I ask, even as I obey him.
He takes my hand into his, and I notice all those tiny scratches on his fingers again. I want to ask him about the house, but he speaks over me. “I’m teaching you how to make a proper fist.”
My small palm is dwarfed by his big one as he curls my fingers. The last time our touch was over quickly. I couldn’t appreciate the heat and the texture of his skin completely.
I do, now. The warmth of his skin seeps into mine as he tucks my thumb down across my index and middle fingers.
“Keep it tight,” he instructs, tapping my thumb. “You don’t want it to get hurt.”
I smile slightly. “Okay.”
He’s been focused on my hand and the technique of making a proper fist but at my whisper, he glances at my face. There’s a dangerous clench in his jaw. I don’t know why I think it’s dangerous, but it is. Maybe it’s because that clench is paired with the look in his eyes. Kind of frosty. Kind of not.
When he lets go of my hand, I don’t like it. I don’t like the loss of touch, so I lightly punch him on his chest, before he can move away and go back to his chair where he’ll psychoanalyze the shit out of me.
And because I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation, I’ll let him.
He stops. Freezes, almost.
I peek up at him through my lashes. “Sorry. I wanted to see if it worked.”
“If that’s how you punch, I don’t think you really taught them their lesson,” he rumbles.
“How do you know so much about punching?”
His heart is beating beneath my fist and I want to press down harder, press up on the rhythm that gives him life.
Sighing, he answers, “I’ve been in fights before.”
“Yeah? With whom?”
He shrugs; it’s tight. “With kids. At school.”
I frown. “Were they assholes to you?”
His lips twitch. “Why? Are you going to use your stellar punching skills on them?”
“Maybe.”
My answer makes him chuckle and I feel it reverberating inside his chest. The chest that I’m touching, through the fabric of his shirt.
There’s no reason for me to touch it. But I can’t not touch it either. Especially when he’s not moving away or telling me to back off.
“Is your house fixed?” I whisper.