Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
It’s faded away, vanished. Just like her.
A tear slides from my cheek and wets the cloth. I hang it back where I found it and close the wardrobe.
I move to her bed, where a few books sit on her bedside table.
There’s no dust on them. Like the entire room, they’re cleaned and taken care of. The pages have turned yellowish though.
The three books are black with a bold white font for the title.
Six Minutes.
Seven Bodies.
Eight Funerals.
The author is someone named Allen B. Thomas.
I don’t really read thrillers, so I have no idea who that is.
Opening the first book, I’m struck by the dedication page.
To my muse,
May every muse be like you.
It’s circled over and over with a red pen.
Was this Alicia?
The word ‘muse’ causes a premonition to hit me. Someone else used to call me that, and I still can’t figure out the meaning behind it.
I check the other two books. Both of their dedications are also circled in red.
The second book’s dedication is:
To my muse,
My reason for living.
The third book’s:
To my muse,
See you in hell.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I open the three books and stare at them splayed out in front of me.
The way they were circled is aggressive, forceful even, to the point it’s left a mark at the back of each page.
There must be a reason why Alicia did this. What was she trying to communicate?
I start reading the first book.
The language is chilling, horror-film like. The prologue is about someone digging holes into the earth.
I pause reading, my fingers shaking, and trickles of cold perspiration glues my blouse to my back. Taking a deep breath, I continue.
The digging goes on and on. The thoughts of the person who’s doing the digging tighten my stomach and brings acute nausea to the back of my throat.
The memories I’ve spent so long burying rush to the surface like a demon snapping out of its chains. My head fills with dark, sinister images. The black dirt. The vacant eyes. The —
“What are you doing here?”
I startle, a yelp falling from my lips as I slam the book shut.
Fuck.
Jonathan towers over my sitting position, a hand tucked in the pocket of his trousers and his metallic gaze pinning me with utter disapproval.
Jonathan. It’s just Jonathan.
I don’t know why I felt like the character from the book would jump out from the pages and strangle me.
Or drag me to one of those holes he was digging up.
“You scared me,” I breathe out.
“So you realise you’re doing something wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be scared.” The disregard in his tone throws me off.
It’s almost like a completely different man from the one who pushed my buttons until I unravelled all over his lap.
The man who made me feel after I’d come to the acceptance that I never would in this lifetime.
I hate him for it, and I’ll never forgive him for resurrecting that part back to life without my approval.
“Do you have trouble following instructions, wild one?”
“What?”
“Margot must’ve told you not to come up here.”
I stand, steady my breathing, and grab the books from the floor and place them back on the bedside table. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“I do not care for being defied, Aurora. Is that understood?”
“Then you shouldn’t have gotten me.”
He grabs me by the arm and spins me around so fast, I gasp as I crash into his chest, my hand landing on his shoulder for balance.
Jonathan stares down at me with darkness so tangible, I can feel the smoke emanating from him and surrounding me in a halo.
That’s what Jonathan is — smoke. You can’t grasp him or escape him. The moment you think you’re safe, he comes out of nowhere and thickens with the intent of suffocating you.
“I have already said this and it’s the final time I’ll repeat it. If I ask a question, I expect a direct answer.”
“And if I have none?” My voice is breathy, small, wrong.
Damn you, voice.
“Then —” he reaches his other hand and grabs my arse cheek “— I’ll spank this arse.”
I instinctively push against him. Memories from last night flash before my eyes and it takes all my will to hold in the foreign sound fighting to get free.
“Now, is that fucking understood?”
“Yes,” I mutter so he’ll let me go.
It’s not about being spanked, it’s about the damn pulsing between my legs since he touched me or the promise that he’ll repeat what happened last night.
It’s about how I can’t stop thinking about the same fingers that are now clutching my wrist being inside me. Or that veiny, strong hand coming down on my soft flesh.
“Good girl.” Jonathan lets my arm fall and I step back on damn wobbly feet.
Why the hell did he have to say those two words using that raspy tone? He’s toying with parts of me I didn’t even think could be toyed with.