Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Why didn’t I ask you to do it for me?” I huffed, putting my hands on my hips and my back to the flames.
“Yeah,” Colby clipped out, clearly not noting the warning in my tone.
“Because it’s not your fucking job to burn down warehouses for me.”
“Yeah, Sariah, it’s my fucking job,” he blew out a heavy breath. “It’s my job to make sure that you don’t come to the place that will bring back trauma for you.”
“You have no idea what does and doesn’t bring back trauma,” I yelled as a crash sounded, presumably from the roof caving in. “And you need to stop with this.” I waved my hand. “Trying to get in the way of me finding my way. I did this because I needed to do this. Having a man do it for me isn’t going to do anything but make me feel more powerless. Make me weaker.” I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. “Jesus, Colby. Don’t you understand that the more you try to protect me, the more you’re fucking me up?”
I was screaming now, and tears were rolling down my cheeks. Because of the smoke. It had to be because of the smoke.
Colby stared at me for a beat. I hoped he might continue to yell at me, pretend that it was indeed the smoke. But he didn’t. He did something much worse instead. He stepped forward and hauled me into his arms.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmured.
“It’s not!” I cried against his chest, pounding my fists against it, trying to fight my way out of his arms. Colby held me firm, taking my blows, taking my wrath.
Eventually, the fight left me. Everything left me.
Then Colby held me as I stained his cut with my tears and watched the warehouse burn.
CHAPTER
TEN
I had been drinking, though I wasn’t drunk. I was careful of that. If I was drunk, he would notice because he noticed everything about me. Whenever he was around, his eyes were on me, cataloging every inch of me, concern and anger simmering right underneath the surface.
I hated him looking at me. Hated being around him.
But I knew asking him to leave would be futile, so I ignored his presence during my recovery and tried my best not to engage with him.
That was hard considering he’d been by my side since I woke up in the hospital.
He slept in my apartment, in my bed. He seemed to understand my aversion to being touched because when we slept in bed together he didn’t hold me. He just laid there and held my hand as the TV played whatever show I was trying to drown out my inner noises with. He didn’t let my hand go. All night.
And then there was the night at the warehouse. Neither of us had spoken about it, thankfully.
So technically, I wasn’t doing really fucking well at avoiding him.
I wanted to tell him to leave. That was on my list of things to do after tonight. But the truth was, I was terrified of being alone with my thoughts. Whatever scant seconds I was alone, I had to dig my nails into the inside of my palms to stop from screaming.
There were multiple, half-moon shaped scabs in varying degrees of healing to prove this.
I’d needed Colby during my recovery. It was, unfortunately, that simple.
But I was mostly recovered. I’d had my final checkup with the doctor today. My stitches were out, my scars were angry, shades of red and pink, and my body was as healed as it was ever going to be.
My mind was another story.
Colby didn’t need to help me up and down stairs anymore, didn’t have to follow me around, waiting to catch me if I stumbled. After tonight, I wouldn’t need him.
Hence the plan.
But in order to commence with my plan for the night, I needed liquid courage. Again, to propel me to do this, not to actually get me wasted like I wanted to be.
I’d had a drink or two to take the edge off every single night, but I was never alone. Violet, Macy, Freya, Kate or Caroline were with me when Colby wasn’t. None of these women were against a strong drink, and not a single person judged me for treating my wounds with alcohol. But if I drowned myself in it like I was craving to do, I’d have no shield. The women or Colby–whoever I was with–would break through, and I’d break down. That was not an option.
Once I was gone, I’d stop at a dive bar somewhere and get absolutely blind drunk. It was a comforting thought.
But for now, the two tequila shots I’d slammed as I heard the telltale rumble of Colby’s bike had to be enough.
He’d only left me alone because there was a prospect sitting on his bike across the street, watching my apartment. I was always being watched. Which I found darkly funny since I wasn’t in any kind of danger. The man who had hurt me was long dead. At least that’s what I assumed.