Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
And yeah, I kind of have a collection of those ever since this crazy asshole started chasing me.
“What are you doing?” I murmur, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
Sebastian is entranced by the back and forth of his finger on my shoulder as if he’s relearning something about his anatomy—or mine. “What type of question is that?”
“A simple one. You…shouldn’t be here right now.”
“Then where should I be?”
“I don’t know…outside?”
“So you want a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of thing?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His fingers crawl up my shoulder to my collarbone until he wraps them around my throat. The hold isn’t tight, but the threat is there. Even the subtle drop in his voice is an indication of his mood. “Whether I leave or stay is only up to me to decide, so how about you get used to that, baby?”
He’s calling me baby, so he can’t be in his beast mode right now.
“How am I supposed to take it?” I taunt.
“Like a good girl.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Do you prefer being called a good slut?”
“Stop it.” My cheeks burn. “I don’t appreciate being called a slut outside of…you know.”
“That, I do know.” He loosens his grip but doesn’t release me as he fingers the pulse point.
“How…do you know?”
“We’ve been together for long enough that I can read your body language. It’s the first thing I notice about people.”
“Why?”
“Hmm.” His voice is absentminded, seeming deep in thought. “I think it’s because I was taught to be mindful of what type of image I project onto the world.”
“And that gave you the opportunity to learn about people’s body language?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. You would be surprised how much people divulge about themselves with a simple gesture. A rub of the nose, sweaty hands, fidgeting, or even looking at a person for too long gives me a hint of their state of mind.”
“Only a hint? Why not the whole picture?”
“Because it’s never enough. Their clothes, posture, and way of talking are what completes it. Usually, one meeting is enough to determine whether the person is a friend or foe.”
“What category was I in?” I tease.
Sebastian’s expression, however, is blank. Only his furrowed brow is an indication of what I assume is confusion. Or maybe it’s displeasure.
“Neither,” he says quietly.
“I thought those were the only categories you have. Are there others I should know about?”
“Not yet.”
“Come on, that’s not fair.”
“Never claimed to belong to that neurotypical category.”
“Because you read people?”
“Because I tactfully avoid the bad kind.”
“Aren’t you bad yourself?”
“Depends on the circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“Being threatened, for instance.”
“Considering your selective skills, you’d be able to prevent danger. You should become a detective.”
“Long hours for minimum wage? No, thanks.”
“Greedy, too, I see.”
“I’m not greedy. I just recognize my worth. It’d be an insult to my IQ to follow a career that won’t lead me anywhere.”
“So helping people get justice leads nowhere?”
“Depends on your definition of justice.”
“There are more than one?”
“Of course. What do you think of when the word justice comes to mind?”
“That people should pay for what they’ve done.”
“That’s just simplistic.”
I hit his shoulder. “And what’s your non-simplistic view?”
“Justice is a system that’s been put in place so the powerful can get away with their wrongdoings under the blanket of righteousness. They legalized their barbaric ways and made laws to protect themselves from naive fools who still think that good will always win. Like all systems, justice is daily tampered with so that truths are twisted and the innocent are wrongly accused for no other reason than being a convenient scapegoat for the people who call the shots.”
“Wow. That’s such a cynical view of the world.”
He raises his brow, a small smile tugging on his lips. “You of all people ought to understand that since you’re sarcastic about everything.”
“Being sarcastic doesn’t make me cynical.”
“With your dark sense of humor, it does.”
“I don’t have a dark sense of humor.”
He lifts his hand and shows it to me. “See that?”
I frown. “What?”
“The black covering my hands when I accidentally touch your humor.”
“Not funny.” I fight a smile as I run my fingers over the script of his tattoo. “What does this mean?”
“My mind is my only cage.”
“That’s beautiful, especially coupled with the Japanese one. Did someone translate them for you?”
“No.”
“So you translated it yourself? That’s impressive. Usually people get all sorts of wrong stuff tattooed on them. I can speak for Japanese, but I heard it happens for Arabic, too.”
He raises a brow. “Is my Japanese correct?”
“Perfectly. When did you get them?”
“When I was eighteen.”
“I wish I was brave enough to get one.”
“We’ll go together and get matching tattoos.”
For some reason, that idea doesn’t seem so crazy to me. I snuggle into him as a chill travels down my spine. He’s so warm, and I don’t only mean physically.
There’s something about him that I’m slowly learning. He has a black and white view of the world but acts as if it’s gray. In a way, he’s emulating feelings he doesn’t have and I find that utterly fascinating.