Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
“Because I wanted to talk to you, okay? I was worried about you. We didn’t get to talk all day. You wouldn’t return my texts. You wouldn’t even look at me on the bus. You…” I shake my head, searching his face for some clue as to what even happened this morning. “You looked so… horrified this morning. So angry, so agitated, so worried, so… I don’t even have a word for it. What… You were about to beat him up, weren’t you? Shepard.”
His chest flares with another breath. For a second, it looks like he won’t answer. But then, roughly, “He didn’t save you.”
“From bumping my head against the door?”
Things ripple through his features. Some reminiscent of this morning, some new that I don’t recognize at all. “Yes. Among other things.”
I let go of his coat and put my hands on his chest, damp and hot, so strong as I say, “Listen, what happened at the bus was an accident.” I press my hands on his chest like I did this morning, to soothe him, to get him to hear me. “It was an accident, Stellan. There was no way anyone could’ve saved me from it, okay, let alone him. Plus, nothing even happened. Look.” I point to the spot where I hit my head. “Nothing. Not one little scratch. As I told you this morning, I’m fine. It was embarrassing, but that was the worst of it.”
“I would have,” he rasps.
“You would have what?”
“Saved you from the accident.”
My heart races. “You… That’s impossible. That’s—”
His eyes swivel over to the spot I pointed out. Then, reaching up, he presses his thumb on it like Shepard had, but his fingers are extremely gentle, careful. As if handling a piece of fine china or the velvet petal of a rose.
“Or died trying,” he finishes both his thought and his perusal, taking his hand away.
I dig my fingers on his chest then. “Please don’t hate him because of me. Please, Stellan.”
“I don’t hate him,” he says.
“So why does he hate you?”
In response, his jaw tenses.
Still, I press, “Why can’t you be there for him? You said that last night.” Last night that feels like forever ago right now. “What does that mean? What does that—”
He steps back. “You need to leave.”
I shake my head, keeping at it. “What did Coach Thorne say to you? Back on the bus. Why did you look like that when you came out of the room? So… So grim. So rigid and—”
“You need to fucking leave,” he growls angrily.
“No.” I put my foot down. “I’m not leaving. I’m not—”
“Look,” he says loudly, with a biting tone, and then proceeds to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This is not a good time, all right? This is a bad fucking time. Wrong fucking time. When I say you need to leave, you need to listen to me. You need to fucking listen to what I say. I can’t… I can’t be trusted right now. I’m not fucking safe. I’m not… Now”—a deep, deep breath expands his chest and hollows out his stomach, twitching his muscles—“I’ve had a very long day that I’d like to put an end to. So why don’t you grab your clothes from over there”—he motions with his jaw—“put them the fuck on and let me walk you to your room.”
I look in the direction he said my clothes are. I see the light pink dress I wore here, on one of the armchairs, along with my white panties and bra that I’d also taken off when I donned his coat. I look at my clothes, on top of each other, and what strikes me the most is that they’re so neatly folded. All their edges are clean and smoothed like he had all the time in the world to do that after a very long day that he wanted to put an end to.
Like how he had all the time in the world last night when he sewed my dress together. After he dropped me off at my room at four in the morning.
Taking a deep breath of my own, I smooth my hands down his coat and reply primly, “No.”
He breathes out so forcefully, so impatiently at that, it’s a wonder that I don’t blow away from the strength of it. “Jesus, fuck. You—”
And then I shut him up.
Because I’ve had it with him. I’m not going anywhere. He can’t make me. By arguing about it, he’s just wasting my time now. So I lower myself down on my knees, the coarse carpet scraping against my skin, and look up at his shocked face.
“You say that word a lot,” I tell him, looking into his dark eyes. “Bad.”
His chest shakes. “You—”
“But I’m not going to argue with you,” I continue. “Because you just said you’ve had a long day.”