Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
He cut me off, his hands moving to pull mine away from my face. “Look at me,” he demanded.
When I didn’t, he gripped my chin and forced my eyes to meet his.
“None of this is your fault. Those people made their choices, and this is the result.”
“What choices?” I shot back. “They didn’t choose this, Wilder. Daniella didn’t choose to die crawling on the floor!”
“You’re looking at this wrong. You couldn’t have saved them. You couldn’t have stopped this. If we didn’t do this here, it would have happened at your house. The only difference would be the body count.”
He wrapped his around me and lifted me effortlessly from the floor. My body trembled against his chest, and I hated how his warmth felt steady, grounding, like a cruel contradiction to the chill seeping through my soul. His movements were methodical as he set me down on the edge of the tub and knelt in front of me.
He removed my shoes first, then his hands moved to my ruined pants. I flinched, but he was gentle, peeling them away before reaching for a knife I hadn’t even seen him retrieve.
With swift precision, he cut through the fabric of my sweatshirt, leaving me exposed entirely. His touch never wavered, it wasn’t rushed or cruel.
“You don’t have to do this too.”
His response was quiet but firm. “ I do. I will always take care of you.”
He eased me into the tub, the hot water shocking against my skin but washing away the filth that clung to me. My body stiffened as he adjusted my position, leaning back slightly before grabbing a washcloth. He started with my hair, his fingers working shampoo through it with a care that made me want to scream. This shouldn’t have felt so normal, so intimate.
Then he moved to my body, the cloth brushing against my skin in slow, deliberate strokes. When he reached my wrists, he retrieved the knife again, carefully slicing through the twine.
My skin was raw, the lacerations angry and red, but he didn’t flinch as he gently cleaned them, his hands steady as ever. How could I fight this? My sister was alive—for now. But for how long? That was the question I couldn’t stop turning over in my mind.
I knew, without having to ask, she hadn’t made it to that farm. If it even existed.
“There was never really a farm, was there?”
His fingers paused for a fraction of a second before resuming their methodical care. “Of course, there is. It belongs to the man who owned this house. He, his wife, and their daughter, Melody. She’s the same age as you.”
A chill ran down my spine, his words settling over me like a dark fog. “Owned?”
He didn’t look up, his focus remaining on my wrists as he dabbed at the tender skin. “Owned,” he confirmed.
“And they’re just… gone?”
“Two of three.” His hand moved to tilt my chin up, forcing me to look at him. “Before you can start, that had nothing to do with you.”
I wasn’t going to think about that right then. “And Cherish. Where is my sister?”
“She’s downstairs.” His tone was maddeningly matter-of-fact.
“Unharmed. Despite what you’re thinking right now, we’re not all-around terrible. Lucian meant it when he said they care about you.”
I wanted to tell him he was full of shit, but I’d seen the looks they exchanged behind their masks, the way they acted as if this nightmarish chaos was somehow normal and justified. They believed what they were saying.
I shut my eyes and forced myself to breathe calmly. My mind was at war with itself—one side begging me to give in, to just stop fighting and accept the inevitable, while the other, the voice that had carried me through every struggle in my life, screamed at me to hold on.
But what was the point when there was no clear way out? Wilder dried me off with the same meticulous care he always showed. The towel moved over my skin in slow strokes, and though his mask was back in place, I could feel the weight of his gaze, the unnerving focus of a man who thought he owned me.
When he finished, he grabbed the clothes he had already picked out from me—my clothes. A sweatshirt, leggings, and even my favorite fluffy socks. He dressed me like I was a doll, his hands careful yet unrelenting, stripping away any autonomy I had left. His touch was efficient and intimate in the worst way. Every moment of it reminded me of how powerless I was.
He retrieved a small tube of cream and gauze from beneath the sink and then knelt in front of me. “This will help,” he assured as he smoothed it over the raw lacerations on my wrists.
The coolness of the cream burned at first, but his movements were maddeningly gentle. Once he’d bandaged my wrists, he grabbed a comb and began working it through my damp hair.