Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“One step at a time. First, you get better. Stronger.”
She looks around. “Here?”
“The offices are closed until after New Year. We have a week.”
“Why are we wasting time? We should already be working on a plan.”
Inwardly, I grin. The old Cas is still inside that stunning body. I bet she’s only biding her time to break out. “As I said, first you heal.”
Chapter 8
Cas
The doctor arrives in the late afternoon to examine me. He’s happy with my progress. If all continues to go well, the IV will be removed tomorrow.
When he’s gone, Ian helps me into a wheelchair. I hold the portable IV, wheeling it alongside while he takes me up one level to a lobby tastefully decorated with African art. An office takes up the rest of the top floor. Adjoining to the office is a bathroom with a shower. He gives me privacy to use the facilities. My hair feels grimy, but I don’t shower yet. The doctor told me to wait another day.
When I’m done, he pushes the wheelchair to the far end of the room and parks it in front of the window. “Wait here.”
I crane my neck to follow his progress across the floor. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back,” he says before shutting the door.
It’s not like I have a choice. Even if my legs are still a bit wobbly, I can walk, but where would I go?
I turn my attention to the view that stretches as far as the eye can see. The sun is a ball of fire dipping below the horizon. It paints the rooftops in copper and gives the windows a rose-gold tint. To some, the city is a place of opportunity and pleasure. To me, it seems like a prison. The tall buildings and tight network of roads feel like bars. There was a time when I was willing to move here in search of work. That was before Ian spoiled me with vast acres of land, a broad river, and wild animals.
What will I do when we’ve dealt with the threat Wolfe poses? I don’t have a plan for the rest of my life. Until yesterday, all my focus was trained on finding Ian and killing him. I never gave what I’d do afterward any thought. However, when I pushed the barrel of my gun against Ian’s stomach, I couldn’t pull the trigger. The opportunity was there, but even if Wolfe hadn’t arrived, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I’ve over-estimated my abilities. Thinking about something and doing it isn’t the same thing. Ian said something similar in the bar about wanting and taking. I’ve imagined the scene countless times in my mind. Easy. Find him. Make him pay. Closure.
Facing him in reality, I knew beyond a doubt killing him would destroy me. Ian might’ve ruined me for other men, but my revenge would’ve ruined me for living. Once upon a time, I gave him my heart, and I only have one heart. Once I’ve given it, it’s forever, no matter what. I can never give it to someone else. What happened may have destroyed us, but my heart will always belong to him. Killing him wouldn’t be anything other than ripping out my own heart and mashing it to a pulp. What have I been thinking? How could I have thought shooting him would fix anything? Love makes you blind, but so does vengeance.
The click of the door pulls me from my thoughts. In the reflection of the window, Ian moves toward me. His steps fall like a heartbeat on the marble. It’s a firm and steady rhythm, one that beats alongside my heart in my chest. I told him it was over because it’s true. I want us to be over. I can’t live through such pain again. I won’t survive it. I barely did.
Besides, a part of me—of us—died that day in the water. I gave up on love. I can resurrect it as little as I can get back the forty percent of my lost cardiac function. Hatred moved in and took over. Now that my reason for hating is gone, my heart is empty. I experience fear, pain, anxiety, and anger, even arousal, all emotions or impulses tied to instinct and survival, but I don’t feel love. I feel relief at being alive, but I don’t feel joy. It’s ungrateful. Pitiful. Pathetic, really. I simply can’t help it.
Ian takes the wheelchair while I grip the IV rail. I don’t ask where he’s taking me as long as I don’t have a say. We cross the lobby, take the elevator, and go back to my makeshift hospital room.
My lips part when we enter. The desk has been pushed against the window and set with a white tablecloth, fine china, and candles. Beyond the desk, the floor drops to that staggering view of black skyscrapers with golden windows blazing in the last sliver of orange daylight.