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)
“I did want to be his.”
“Every time you said his name, I wanted you to say mine.”
“I will never say your name again.”
“Every time you did something for him, you told him something,” he goes on, his voice guttural and serrated. “Every time you laughed, you smiled, you stayed up late texting him. Every time you danced, I wanted to tell you. I wanted to fucking tell you that it was me. That it’s me you’ve been talking to. It’s me you’ve been sharing your secrets with. It’s me who’s making you smile. It’s me who’s making you laugh. It’s me you’re staying awake for like I’ve stayed awake for you. It’s fucking me you’ve been putting on your show for. It’s me. Not him. It’s finally fucking me who’s taking care of you, who gets to take care of you. Who gets to protect you. Who gets to save you from the world, from yourself. Who gets the privilege of making you smile and laugh and fucking dance. It’s me. Not him.”
Our breaths are harsh.
They’re clashing against each other.
Our fingers are tugging and pulling at things on each other’s bodies. And I bet if we tried, we could listen to our hearts pounding in our chests at the same time. As if going to war against each other.
Or maybe, maybe, just beating in rhythm with each other.
At least that’s what I’d always hoped.
But I’m done now.
I’m done hoping.
I’m done with him.
“It wasn’t you,” I tell him, gathering my breaths and my composure. “I did all those things for him, with him, because of him. So they’re not for you. And you don’t get to come in here and change the narrative that you yourself set, okay? You don’t get to come here and flip my fucking reality upside down just because you feel like it. So I want you to let me go. I need to go. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
He doesn’t.
God, he doesn’t.
And I’m ready to lose my shit because I need him to let me go so I can go sob in a corner. So I can go break down because he chose to finally give me what I always wanted, but he broke my heart in the process.
“You don’t have to,” he says, his eyes brimming with something. “But I need you promise me something.”
“You need me to promise you something?” I ask in disbelief.
He said the same thing in that closet too, didn’t he? And while I gave him my promise freely back then, I’m not going to do the same. I’m never ever going to do the same.
He isn’t deterred, however, as he states, “I want you to go on the road.”
“What?”
“When the team leaves day after tomorrow for the next few weeks, I want you to come along. I’ll make all the arrangements. I’ll—”
“I… What? Why?”
“Because I want you away.”
It takes me a few seconds to understand where this came from and what he’s talking about. And then it hits me, and I go still.
“From m-my mother?”
Anger, pure and clear, ripples through his features as he replies back, “From your fucking mother.”
My heart starts to pound then.
In a different way than before. In a way that makes my body tingle, my belly swirl.
Even though it happened only a little bit ago, it still feels like a distant memory. His face, his body, him. How he’d reacted to the news; how he’d looked when I told him about my mother. How it felt more than anger.
It felt all-consuming and scary.
Wildfire-y.
I know I was the one to call him that, but I don’t think I knew what it actually meant. Not until today. Not until now.
Not until he got that way on my behalf.
For me.
I was so busy absorbing his extreme reaction that it’s only now hitting me, that it was all for me. His fire. His anger. His whatever that was, it happened because of me. And despite myself, despite everything, his wildfire is thawing the chill. The bad kind. The kind I’d felt ever since Shepard came to me last night.
“I can handle my mother,” I state firmly because I don’t want to melt.
He grits his wounded jaw. “Promise me you’ll go.”
“My mother is none of your concern.”
“Promise. Me.”
“No.”
“Don’t do this, Dora.”
God.
I push at him then. “I’ve asked you multiple times now, please stop calling me that.”
Not that he budges. “Don’t be stubborn about this.”
“I’ll be stubborn about whatever the fuck I want,” I shoot back, pushing at him again.
“This is for your fucking safety,” he growls, his arm tightening.
“If this is about my safety, then you’re the last person I should listen to,” I tell him. “I’m the most unsafe with you.”
Again, our breaths clash and our bodies collide with each other. And again, it could also be that we’re breathing in tandem. We’re living in tandem. We’re existing in the same space.