Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I shoved to my feet, stumbling slightly. My head did ring some, but I didn’t have time to think about that right now. The backpack had flown off me, so I looked around, finding it about ten feet away, and grabbed that first. I hooked it onto my right shoulder, but my left was already screaming at me. Any time I tried to move, it felt like someone was trying to rip my arm off.
Ignore it. You have to ignore it and get to Crow.
I patted my pocket, unzipped it, thankful I’d closed the phone inside. Home still blinked for me, calling my name. The house, yes—I felt more at ease in Crow’s cabin than I ever had anywhere else—but even more than that, it was because of the man inside. He was my home, and I needed to get to him.
I rushed over to the snowmobile. It had turned off when I’d been thrown off, the emergency key Crow had shown me having done its job. I climbed on, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, the cold, and tried to restart it.
Nothing.
I tried a second time and a third. Nothing happened. “Fuck!” I shouted. Why couldn’t I stop fucking up?
Shoving off the machine again, I pulled the phone out and started to walk—trying not to focus on the fact that I’d just wrecked Crow’s snowmobile, or anything that would take up space in my head while I needed to focus on getting to him.
My teeth chattered, legs started to feel heavier and heavier. It felt like my insides were frozen, like my limbs were blocks of ice. Every time I fell, I fought to get to my feet again. Crow, Crow, Crow. I said his name over and over in my head, the only thing that kept me going.
My pulse felt like it was slowing, my heart too, my legs like concrete, unable to move. I fell, face landing in the snow.
Get up, get up, get up.
Crow’s mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the way he looked at me, eyes filled with words he didn’t know how to say.
Get up, get up, get up.
Being on my knees for him, his cock in my mouth, anchoring me. His dick inside me, the greatest salvation I’ve ever known.
Get up, get up, get up.
Crow bathing me, cooking for me.
His rough voice saying one simple word: need.
He needed me.
I needed him.
Which meant I needed to get the fuck up.
I pushed onto my knees.
I’m coming, Crow.
I looked ahead, and in the distance I saw a light, saw home.
I checked the phone, but it had gone black. I tried to open the screen, but nothing popped up. Maybe snow had gotten inside. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe I was dead. I didn’t know, but I was going toward that light, hoping like hell it was really there.
I pushed harder than I ever had in my life, stumbling but still going as I rushed toward what I hoped was home.
Crow.
Home.
So close. You’re almost there. Keep going.
I didn’t know how it happened—if somehow I blocked it out, if it was a fucking miracle or what—but one moment I was forcing myself to walk, and the next the porch stairs were in front of me.
Tears froze against my face as I fell onto the wood.
The pain in my shoulder was gone, but I knew that was only temporary, that it would be back. For now, as I crawled toward the door, I felt nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Crow
“Crow…take this…I need you to take this for me.” Cyrus’s voice was soft, broken-sounding as he put something to my lips.
I shook my head.
“Please, Crow…do it for me. I need you to do this for me.”
My eyes fluttered open. Cyrus’s face was flushed, hair a mess, eyes ringed red. He…didn’t look good.
What’s wrong? What happened?
When he didn’t answer, I realized I hadn’t spoken the words.
“Don’t die. I’m scared you’re going to die on me. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”
I wouldn’t do that to him, couldn’t. I would do anything in my power to stay here for him, to be here with him. I’d always thought I would live my life alone, but now I had him, and the thought of ever being without him made me feel emptier and lonelier than I’d ever thought possible.
I opened my mouth, and he put two pills on my tongue.
Don’t do it! Don’t take them! You can’t trust him—no!
This is Cyrus. He’s not Chosen. He’s not the children who picked on me. I can trust him.
“That’s it. Here, drink this, baby. Swallow them with this for me.” Cyrus put a straw to my lips, and I swallowed the water. I had done that before, hadn’t I? Taken something he had given me, drinks he’d made me, when I hadn’t done that since I left foster care.