Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“I'm so sorry,” she says and I hate that there's true fear in her eyes.
“You're sorry for hurting yourself?” I ask, my annoyance growing by leaps and bounds. Who the fuck feels the need to apologize for getting hurt?
“The blood,” she whispers. “The sheets are ruined.”
I reach for her foot but she jerks back. Even in pain, she doesn't want me to touch her.
Chapter 24
Raya
“Get out of the fucking bed, Raya,” he snaps angrily as he crawls out on his side.
I wince as I move at his command. My toe is killing me and his anger doesn't help. I limp like a baby, like I've severed a limb rather than just knocking my toenail off. I haven't been given many opportunities in my life to get injured. I'm always supervised. I'm always protected. There's always someone there to open the door, to help me out of a vehicle.
This is my fault. I should have left the bedroom door open. I honestly have no idea why I closed it. It locks me inside again with him. I don't have the freedom or the ability to just walk over to the bedroom door and open it. He made it clear in his home gym that the exercise equipment is there but not available to me.
“Sit on the fucking counter.” He points before opening the cabinet above where he keeps his towels.
I watch, dashing away the tears on my cheeks as he pulls the first aid kit out. He places it on the counter near my hip. It doesn't take him long to open it and then he's standing in front of me. I have nowhere to go.
He's pissed. His eyes on fire. No explanation on his tongue, and when he reaches for my foot, I expect that anger to be transferred. There's no irritation in his touch. His skin is warm and it makes me gasp. He immediately releases my foot and I find that I'm disappointed.
He read my reaction wrong. He saw it as me not wanting him to touch me rather than being surprised that his hands aren't icy cold as I imagine his heart is.
His eyes search mine for a long moment before he takes a step back and holds his hands up. “Get it cleaned up,” he snaps, before leaving the bathroom.
My tears are renewed and I know that I'm being a baby. I know it shouldn't hurt my feelings that I'm expected to tend to my own wound care. I'm not his responsibility in any capacity. I'm simply the girl he took from the beach because I snubbed him at first sight. Maybe this is the further part of his retaliation. Maybe he knows an ounce of closeness is what I crave and he refuses to give it to me.
I swallow down a whimper. The throbbing in my foot is intensifying but I know I can't sit here all night, bleeding on his floor. So I start to rummage through the first aid kit. It's high end and fully stocked. I sort through numerous sizes of bandages before pulling one out I think I can use. There's antiseptic spray and antibiotic cream but that's not what surprises me. There's an entire surgical kit with scalpels, and curved needles, and those weird scissors you only ever see on medical shows on television.
Why would he have a kit like this? A normal first aid kit has tape and bandages and maybe an aspirin or two. I look from the first aid kit to the door leading into the bedroom. Liam is ripping the sheets off the bed, his hands gruff and angry. I'd be surprised if there weren't tears in the fabric when he's done.
It scares me. It makes me wonder when I reenter the bedroom, if he's going to be unsatisfied with just being destructive to the bed. I take my time tending to my wound. Both because it hurts and I'm not a fan of causing myself pain and also because I'm terrified of how things are going to be when I go back into the bedroom.
He doesn't look over his shoulder. He doesn't glance back at me as he pulls fresh sheets from the armoire and remakes the bed. He's grumbling to himself, the same way he was in the kitchen, the same way he did when he left me standing in the middle of the exercise room. He's not speaking loud enough for me to hear him but it's clear it's not words of praise or anything like that.
I close up the first aid kit, biting my lip to stifle the grunt of pain as I jump down from the cabinet. I return the kit to where he had it and clean the droplets of blood off his bathroom floor before washing my hands. I have no idea why I didn't grab the scalpel from the first aid kit. I should be figuring out a way to use it on him.