Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
His mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
And then I hear it.
Her.
"Roman," she whispers, her voice shaking.
My mind spins, trying to make sense of the fact that her voice whispers my name when her body is somewhere inside the house still burning in front of me.
Finn says something else, but I don't hear that either.
"Roman."
I flick my gaze upward, over Finn's shoulder.
Mila stands behind him, tears running down her face, leaving streaks in the grime smeared across her cheeks. Soot clings to her hair and clothing. There's a bandage wrapped around one arm, and someone has draped a blanket across her shoulders. Her green eyes are wide and full of pain, her bottom lip quivering.
"Mila," I whisper her name, fucking terrified that she's not really standing there, and I'm just imagining her. Terrified that she's burning up in the house, and I'm too fucking late. Terrified that this is some new hell, conjured up by my mind to punish me for not keeping her safe.
"Roman," she cries and flings herself at my chest.
Her little body hits me hard, knocking me on my ass. Without conscious thought, I catch her, wrapping my arms around her so tightly, I'm crushing her to my chest…fucking terrified she'll turn to mist and slip away.
She trembles and shakes in my arms, sobbing into my neck.
I bury my face in her hair and pull her closer, trying to crawl inside her. The stench of smoke and soot clings to her, the acrid smell burning my nose. Her familiar peaches scent lingers just below those harsher odors, though. That intoxicating scent hits my system like a shot of adrenaline, jarring me back into reality.
This isn't a dream. It isn't a figment of my imagination. She's real, and she's in my arms.
She's safe.
"Mila," I whisper, and then I fucking break down and cry like a baby.
"I have to tell you something," she whispers hours later.
We're in the emergency room, in a tiny fucking bed with sterile white sheets and plain white walls. Wires and monitors run all over the place, stuck to her chest and abdomen. She's got a blood pressure cuff around one arm and a pulse oximeter on one finger.
She's safe.
I'm wrapped around her like a blanket. I can't stop touching her, can't stop reminding myself that she's here with me, and not still in that fucking house. Aside from a burn on her left arm and some coughing from smoke inhalation, she's okay.
She's safe.
The battle-axe of a nurse keeps glaring at me like I'm in her way as she checks Mila over, but I don't care. I'm not moving away from her. It's been three hours since she threw herself into my arms, and I haven't let her go yet. I fucking can't. I'm terrified if I do, she'll disappear.
"What?" I whisper back, running my nose up and down against her throat, breathing her in. They let me put her in the shower a few minutes ago. The stench of smoke still clings to her, but it's faint. She smells like soap now. It's not that peaches scent that drives me crazy, but I think I love this one even more. Because it's proof that she's really here, safe in my arms.
She flicks her gaze up to the nurse messing with the monitor beside the bed, then to Dwayne Livingston, the LAPD officer stationed right inside the door to her room, and then back to me.
"Can you give us a minute?" I request, catching Livingston's gaze.
He jerks his chin up in a nod and then asks the nurse to follow him out, his deep voice leaving no room for argument. The old lady huffs and glares at me anyway before stepping out, but I don't give a shit if she's mad at me or not. Aside from putting her in the shower, I haven't been alone with Mila since I left for work almost twenty hours ago.
I need five minutes with her, and I know she needs it too.
She waits until Livingston pulls the door closed behind the nurse and then twists and turns in my arms until she's facing me. One small hand slides through my hair and then down my face.
"I didn't think I was ever going to see you again," she whispers, tears filling her eyes as she stares at me.
I press my forehead to hers, and exhale a shaky breath.
"I thought you were dead," I admit, my throat raw as I remember how that felt. When I was on my knees out there, believing she was still in that house, my soul tore in half. I will never forget that pain. Having her in my arms now does little to calm the rage that's been boiling through me since the second she called me. I'm going to fucking kill Guerrero and the motherfuckers he sent.