Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
For a moment, all we do is stare at each other. I don’t quite understand what’s happening. He’s not mad anymore, at least not at me, but then I don’t think he ever was. He was mad at himself and looking for somebody to take it out on, as always.
“Everything is all fucked up.”
“I know what you mean.”
He nods slowly, then starts sliding down the bed until his head hits the pillow. “I’m so fucking tired, Delilah. I’m so tired.”
“Then rest. Let it all go for now.” I lie down beside him, cautious. I don’t want him getting pissed because I got too close.
His eyes slide shut almost instantly, and it’s not long before he starts to snore. I turn out the light and settle in, pulling the blankets over him before taking a chance and resting my head on his shoulder. His snoring doesn’t skip a beat, and I smile to myself.
He’ll hurt like hell in the morning, but for now, his presence has a soothing effect. I don’t have to imagine having him here with me. He’s here right now, and I can touch him, and even though I know the whole thing is completely fucked, it feels good. The first thing that’s felt good in days.
I don’t just drift off to sleep. I drop into it all at once.
And by the time I wake up to the high-pitched beeping of my alarm clock, he’s gone. His side of the bed is cold.
17
LUCAS
It isn’t until my desk phone rings and startles the shit out of me that I realize I was zoned out again. No surprise there, of course. I’ve been zoned out for a week. No matter what I’m doing, my head is always somewhere else.
Per usual, I don’t want to talk to the person calling.
“Can you get that?” I call out to my assistant. “I’m busy.”
I know Lauren won’t accept that excuse forever, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s her fucking problem. She needs to take the hint before I end up saying or doing something I can’t take back. I hear the excuse my assistant gives, regretful but firm. That’s one problem taken care of.
For now. She’ll find another way to remind me of her existence before long.
I don’t need her right now. I doubt I ever did. All the so-called help she’s given me has done nothing but make things worse.
I already know I’m a fuckup. That bringing Delilah to Corium might have been the biggest mistake in a life full of them.
And that I can’t backslide into destructive habits.
Frankly, I don’t give a fuck about what I’m supposed to do or what I shouldn’t do. I’ve tried all this time to turn things around, be a better man, and look where it got me. What a waste of time.
I was already prone to hurting others. Destroying lives. Ending them. I still have that ability within me. Now, I get to feel bad about it after the fact. If all this therapy didn’t change anything about who I am, what’s the point?
Like that night in Delilah’s room, it’s a miracle I didn’t kill her—or at least hurt her badly, as I was close to doing when I first threw open the door. I wanted blood. Her blood on my hands.
How did things end up? With me passing out after blubbering like a fucking moron and spending the night in her bed. We were here for all of twenty-four hours at that point, and I went against my own ground rules.
What’s worse, I never got around to warning her about Xander.
Now, I don’t want to. I’m afraid of what will happen if I spend another minute with her. What is it about her that gets into my bones? I can’t shake her no matter how I try, and I’m struggling.
The temptation to go to her rather than sit at this desk and pretend I’m paying attention to my work is stronger than the temptation to drown my sorrows in a whiskey bottle. Considering the way I’m struggling with that, it’s saying something. She’s stronger than any addiction or craving I’ve ever known. The release she’s brought me is on par with the release I get during a fight. I don’t need to beat anybody to a pulp to earn it either.
Though I can’t pretend watching fear spark in her eyes isn’t a turn-on. Even now, sitting here, my cock stirs at the memory of her short, shallow breaths. The way she backed up against the headboard as I crawled to her like a lion prepared to devour his prey.
Granted, the memory is a little fuzzy. Considering everything I drank that night, it’s amazing I made it to her room in the first place. There are things I remember clearly, though. Being close to her. The way she flinched when I punched the wall hard enough to leave my knuckles aching the next day. There’s a satisfaction in that that I can’t deny.