Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
I study his profile as he carries me back to the bed, marveling at his beauty. Even now, when he’s stressed and scowling. So beautiful. He lowers me gently. “What the fucking hell are you doing?” he snaps.
“Doc said I should move around,” I argue. “And my arse was getting sore from being on it for too long.”
“I’ll give you a sore ass too.”
“You sure are in a giving mood this evening.”
His warning look makes me smile. “Are you hungry?”
“Rose brought me some stew.” I point to the bowl on the bedside, and Brad looks.
“You’ve not touched it.”
I shrug, easing back against the pillow. Truth is, I was hungry. Then I foolishly asked Rose some questions. I didn’t like the answers. “She’s worried.”
“Rose is always worried.” He picks up the bowl and stirs the stew, cocking a leg and sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s going to feed me.
“I’m worried,” I add, watching for his reaction. He doesn’t give me one, just keeps his focus on his task and scoops some vegetables onto the spoon, bringing it to my mouth. And because I don’t want to add to his grumpiness, I take it. I don’t like this. Not the stew, the situation. I chew and swallow as Brad gets more onto the spoon. “What are you going to do, Brad?”
“You know what I’m going to do.” He peeks up, his eyes on my lip. He doesn’t see a dainty little ring anymore. He sees a fishing hook. He sees a victim. He blinks and looks away, directing the spoon to my mouth. “Open.”
“No.”
“Eat the stew, Pearl.”
“I don’t want the fucking stew!”
The spoon clangs in the bowl, his face outraged. Fuck not adding to his grumpiness. He looks at my mouth again. And quickly looks away.
“Stop it,” I order. “Don’t make me that girl again.”
His jaw is spasming as he stares at the bowl. “I’m sorry. I just—” His body lifts with his inhale. “I need some time to get my head around it.” He smiles meekly.
I feel my throat clogging up, my panic rising. And what if he can’t get his head around it? What if he can’t see me as anything but that girl? What if . . . what if he doesn’t want me? “I can’t be her to you.” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it.
He watches me try to hold on to my tears. “Stop,” he orders, placing the bowl down and getting up on the bed, on all fours, his knees and fists buried into the mattress on either side of my body. Caging me in. But not touching me. I look up at his face hovering over mine, his hair falling forward into his eyes. “You’ll never be anything but a fucking hero to me, Pearl. A fighter.”
“Then touch me,” I whisper, begging him to hear me.
“You’re too delicate.”
“Touch me,” I grate, and he shakes his head, his eyes dragging down my broken body.
“I’ll never be the cause of your pain. I will never hurt you.”
“You’re hurting me now,” I tell him, making him wince as I reach for his face and feel his stubble. His eyes close, his face turning into my touch, breathing in.
“I love you,” he murmurs, “but I can’t touch you.” He turns a kiss onto my palm and gets up off the bed, pulling his T-shirt off, like some kind of sadistic arsehole. His chest looks pumped. Smooth. His bullet wound shimmers. I struggle up to sitting as he walks into the bathroom, taking the bandage off his arm as he goes, shutting the door. He can’t touch me. Now or never?
My eyes dart across my bare knees. No. No, he is not making me a victim. I swing my legs off the edge of the bed on a suppressed, pain-filled grunt, and stand, cradling my arm to my chest as I walk slowly to the bathroom, each step sending shockwaves up my body into my ribs. I’m breathless by the time I make it there, and when I push the door open, Brad’s in the shower. I make sure there’s enough swing for it to hit the wall behind, alerting him to my presence. His hands are on his head, halfway pulling back his wet hair, his body naked and drenched.
“Are you kidding me?” he barks.
“I am not,” I confirm, taking the doorframe for support.
“Get your ass back in bed.” He snatches a towel down and covers himself, fastening it.
“I have an arse, Brad. And you can kiss it.” I frown, and Brad jerks like he’s been shot. Then his feet are slapping the tile floor, coming at me. “You’re acting like my father,” I yell, stopping him dead in his tracks, his expression injured. I take a moment to breathe, to gather my temper before it puts me on my arse. Not my ass, but my arse. There’s no calm to be found. “I did not sign up to be bossed around and . . . and . . . and . . . parented!” I yell. “I signed up to have you. I signed up to be touched and it not hurt. To be loved and love back without being terrified my love would leave me. I signed up not to be abandoned and left alone, scared and lonely.” My anger makes me stagger forward, and Brad catches me for the second time in a few minutes. Pain sears me, but it’s nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I stare at his chest, my head low, my eyes low. Until Brad takes my throat and forces my face to his. I’m immediately lost in his lazy gaze. Immediately rocked by the level of love I feel for him. He’s the only person I’ve given my whole heart to—all my trust and hope—and I’ll be destroyed if I lost him.