Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
"Okay," I said, taking a breath, feeling myself relax slightly. That wasn't so bad. I mean, if she was off her rocker, it was better for her to be with licensed professionals who would know how to handle her.
"We didn't get a chance," he told me, shrugging his shoulder. "We were halfway down the street, and we heard the gunshot."
"No," I said, shaking my head, not wanting to accept that, not wanting another body on my conscience.
"This wasn't your fault, babe. Both of these people had lifelong mental health issues. You can't keep people in a pressure cooker like that. They eventually blow if they can't find the right help. These people, unfortunately, couldn't. It has nothing to do with you."
"I killed him," I insisted, it being the first time I had said it aloud. It tasted bitter and metallic on my tongue. Lemon and pennies. A combination that made my stomach twist painfully.
"He was going to rape you. And possibly kill you as well, Aven. I don't give a fuck what some bullshit law says. When someone means you bodily harm, you have a God-given right to protect yourself by any means necessary. Case fucking closed. You did what you had to. It sucks that you had to. And the only reason you had to is that this guy was warped in the head, and didn't get the right help for it."
My gaze lowered, trying to hide the fact that I couldn't quite agree with him the way he wanted me to, the way a lifetime of working in a shady business allowed him to think.
I didn't disagree that the man was crazy.
I obviously didn't blame myself for what he had done.
But I couldn't shake the guilty sensation that came over me in waves here and there. For him. And, now, for her too, I guess.
"Hey," Quin said, voice low, almost soothing, as his hands moved, snagging me under the knees, and dragging me forward until my legs draped over his, until I was within reach. His arms moved around me slowly, dragging me against his chest, his cheek coming down on the top of my chin. "It will get better," he assured me.
"When?" I asked, not even pretending that I wasn't melting into him. I wouldn't even try. It felt too good to have his strong arms around me, his solid chest against me, his warm breath on the top of my head.
"Don't know, babe," he said, his hand dropping from where it had been wrapped around my arm, moving to stroke gently down my thigh to my knee, then back again. Soft, sweet. Not expectant. Not demanding. Just a touch. Innocent, even. "But someday, it won't be the first thing you think of. And then it won't be the tenth thing you think of. And then you will go days, weeks, without thinking about it. Life comes at you fast. Once it does, this will be nothing but a spare thought in that vicious loop in your head in low moments. Nothing more. It won't be like this for long."
"Promise?" I asked, needier than I ever had been before, angling my head up to look at him, to search for a lie in his words.
"I promise."
And there was no lie.
And I somehow believed him.
"Okay," I heard myself whisper, the pressure in my chest too tight to manage anything stronger as my body seemed to shift without me telling it to, knowing its own mind, bringing me along for the ride as I scooted up further, half on his lap, allowing my knee to find the mattress on his side, then my other knee to find it on his opposite side.
"Aven..." he tried, but his voice was already going rough; his eyes heated.
My hips sank down onto his lap as my hands found a new home at his shoulders, seeming poised there, waiting for permission, a sign that he was along for this as well, that he had been struggling with it too, that this was going to happen whether it was logical or not.
His arms hesitated, weighted down at his sides for a long moment before they rose, his strong hands sliding across my hips, then down my back, arms crossing around my ass, dragging me closer.
"Your lip is busted," he said, voice dipped in regret.
My lip was the last thing on my mind. He could break it back open for all I cared, so long as the impossible pressure on my lower stomach could be eased, the fluttering in my chest justified.
My head angled up, my hands sliding to the back of his head, pulling him closer, sealing my lips to his gently, sweetly, the only kind of kiss my lip would allow.
And as soon as I felt the contact, I knew that it was enough. It warmed, sizzled, moved down my jaw, throat, chest, into my belly where it settled with a warm, swirling sensation you could get drunk off of, could get addicted to.