Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I waited in vain.
A knock at the door roused me, and I raced to it, flinging the door open, startling the person on the other side. Mr. Freedman from the jewelry store downstairs stood there, smiling at me.
“Ah, Mr. Kincaid, you’re home. I thought I saw you earlier. Excellent.”
“What can I do for you?” I rasped out.
He held out his hand. “I was waiting for Ms. Robbins to pick this up. Since she hadn’t come in, I thought I would drop it by for you.”
Wordlessly, I stretched out my hand and accepted the small box.
“Come see me when you’re ready for your band.”
I cleared my throat. “Thank you for bringing it by.”
“No problem.” He paused. “Mr. Kincaid, are you all right?”
I looked at him, shaking my head. “No.”
I shut the door.
An hour later, I was still holding the box in one hand, the bottle of scotch in the other. Finally, I raised the lid on the box and looked at Ally’s ring.
Small, delicate, and perfect.
Just like her.
The diamonds glittered under the light, the white and rose gold seamlessly entwined, the design still as lovely as the day I saw it in the window of the antique shop in London. He had done an amazing job, the work on it perfect. You would never know it hadn’t always been this petite. The inscription mocked me, the tiny words blazing in my eyes. Words that no longer held any meaning—at least not to Ally.
I remembered the day we finally went to see him. She had asked him about a band for me, and he quickly sketched a simple design—far more masculine for me. He was going to make it up for us when we were ready and ensured he had ordered enough of the same gold so it would match.
I shut the lid with a loud snap.
I guessed we’d never be ready.
We’d never be getting married.
I hadn’t listened to my gut, to the feeling that she needed me more than anything else. I’d shoved down the worries, the thoughts in my head that I needed to stay. I didn’t listen to the voice in my head telling me to take her with me. I could have protected her in Africa. The jackals I left her to cope with on her own were far more vicious.
I lurched to my feet as the burn started. My legs began shaking, my stomach tightening. My chest was on fire as a sudden wave of blistering-hot pain coursed through me. My sluggish heart began racing, my breath coming out in gasps.
She was gone.
My Nightingale was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. None of her smiles. Her pink notes. Her laughter. Her cinnamon-flavored kisses. No more of her love, her touch, or her sweet words.
I’d lost the one thing in my life that was good. By insisting on fulfilling my professional obligations, I had abandoned my personal ones and caused the woman I loved to walk away.
I was a fucking idiot.
I gripped the edge of the counter, a slow rage filling me, chasing away the numbness. With a roar, I flung the small box away. It bounced off the wall, hitting the counter and rolling to the floor.
Suddenly, I wanted everything gone. Destroyed. Nothing was safe. The dishes we bought together shattered against the wall, the shards hitting my skin. Blood dripped from the tiny cuts. Her favorite mug hit the floor, exploding in a fury of ceramic slivers. Small items she’d picked out were destroyed. Her favorite blanket, I tore, the material shredding under my angry hands.
Lenses and a few cameras were tossed across the room as I raged. My phone hit the wall, the repaired screen cracking again and going black. Everything that sat on top of my desk was decimated with a sweep of my arm. Gasping for air, I glanced up and froze. The photo, my photo of her, hung over my desk, where I could see it every time I sat there. Stalking over, I gripped the edges, tearing it away from the wall, raising it over my head, intent on destroying it as well.
Except I couldn’t. My arms locked in place, and slowly I lowered them, the picture resting along the top of the desk. I traced the outline of her freckles with the tip of my shaking finger.
Enchanting, I had called them.
Freckles I had touched, kissed, teased with my tongue.
Freckles I wouldn’t ever see again.
Hot, burning tears coursed down my cheeks, dripping onto the glass. They mixed with the blood, splashing red on the image.
My heart’s blood.
Rage left and agony moved in. I stumbled back, gripping my hair, one word leaving my mouth.
“Ally.”
I collapsed on the bed, shattered and drained. I buried my face in the pillow—the pillow that still smelled of her. I thundered in agony, no longer able to contain the pain.