Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
The moment the metal hit her ankle, she’d shut down. All the progress I’d made over the weekend leached away by the thin band of gold. When she’d talked of freedom, all I could see was her in his arms. I didn’t even care if she went to the police about me or tried to ruin my business. All I could think of what it would feel like to lose her, or to see her in someone else’s embrace.
She made me feel, but the problem inherent in that is that she made me afraid of the hurt I’d suffer if she left. Losing her would be a mortal blow. So, I’d wrapped the shackle around her ankle and promised to make it work this time, to make her understand how keeping her was the best thing for the both of us.
“Camille?”
“Yes.” She didn’t look at me.
“What are you thinking?”
“You don’t deserve an answer to that question.”
Fair enough. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to decide between letting the silence steep even longer or trying, once again, to explain to her why I was doing this.
“Have you ever put a puzzle together?” Her low voice had a chilly note I’d never heard there before.
“Yes.”
“Did you force the pieces to make it work?”
“I see where you’re going with this, but if you’d just let me—”
“No. If you intend to tell me why this is the way things have to be, save your breath.”
Everything I’d done boiled down to the simplest desire. “I just want you.”
She finally turned to me, her eyes like hard aquamarine stones. “What if I told you this isn’t the way to get me? What if I told you this is the surest way to lose me?”
“That doesn’t make sense. You felt it in the restaurant. I know you did.”
“So what if I did?” She pointed to her ankle. “This erases all of it.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
She turned back to the window. “I’m done with this conversation.”
We rode in silence the rest of the way home.
I tried to make conversation with her during dinner, but her responses were no better than one or two syllables at most, and she didn’t engage me any more than necessary.
Frustration pooled inside me until I itched to yank her into my lap and force her to talk to me, to be herself. But I had finally learned that the more I pushed against her defenses, the higher she built them. Patience and pressure were the surest ways to get to her.
After the excruciating dinner, she strode toward the library. I followed, but she closed the door in my face.
“If you want to stare, do it from your camera.”
I could have stormed in, thrown her over my shoulder and carried her upstairs. Fuck, I wanted to so badly that I rested my hand on the doorknob and thought about it for a few minutes. In the end, I gave in to my logic instead of my boiling blood, and I took her advice. I poured myself a large glass of bourbon and headed upstairs to my surveillance room.
The screens woke up, shining a harsh light that took a while for me get adjusted to. I sat down and flipped on a view of her. She sat at the table, a pen in one hand as she flipped through a book with the other. I couldn’t see what she was reading, but she seemed engrossed in it. Link’s apartment flickered to life on one of the smaller monitors. He was on the couch with a woman, his arm slung around her shoulder with his hand at rest on her tit. Maybe if I showed this to Camille, she’d trust me again. Or it would only hurt her. Fuck.
I sat back and sipped my bourbon. Veronica’s apartment was dark. She’d started seeing a man and seemed to spend more time with him than at home. It didn’t matter. Watching her held zero interest for me unless it involved Camille. She was the star of my show, and I hoped one day I could be the star of hers.
Doubt crept in as I watched her work. Was she right? Would I lose her by keeping her close? Dad certainly seemed to think so. I moved from sipping my bourbon to taking larger swallows that burned on the way down.
My phone buzzed. Dad was calling. I hit ignore, a rare occurrence for me. But I already knew what he’d ask. I didn’t want another go-around of the same argument with a different person. The one thing I wanted—no, the one thing I needed—had slammed the door in my face. So I would sit and drink until she came up to bed.
And then I’d hold her. The thing I looked forward to most every day. I didn’t care if she wore her pajamas. I took another swig. She could wear a goddamn winter coat with gloves and a hat for all I cared, just so long as she was close.