You Are My Reason Read online Willow Winters (You Are Mine Duet #1)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Romance Tags Authors: , Series: You Are Mine Duet Series by Willow Winters
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Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
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My fingers shake as I pull down the long cashmere sleeves. If he came up now, he’d know for sure that this is more than me just getting dressed. I’m dressed to leave. The thoughts don’t slow me, they only push me to be faster; I’m fueled by nerves and the desperation to save myself.

I can barely breathe as I kneel and tie the shoelaces on a pair of sneakers I grabbed from the walk-in closet. My hands don’t stop trembling and my vision keeps going in and out as the dull pain behind my eyes gets worse. I sway as my light-headedness becomes too much, and I have to close my eyes and breathe. Just breathe.

I stand on wobbly legs and walk as quietly as I can to the window, which is just as unhelpful as it was a moment ago. Staring over my shoulder at the closed door, I lick my dry, cracked lips as I unlock the window. The lock on the left turns easily but the one on the right is tight, and I need both hands and all my focus to loosen it. Each second that passes seems too long, as if this small moment is enough time for him to stop me.

Tick, tick, tick.

The sound of my heavy breathing and the blood rushing in my ears are all I hear as I push the window up as high as I can. I manage to lift the heavy thing about two feet, and I hope it’ll be enough. I know there’s a way to somehow angle the window and get the screen out, but in my haste and nervousness, I can’t figure it out.

The heater clicks on again and I nearly have a heart attack, my scream barely contained as it tries to escape from my throat.

Tick, tick, tick.

I can’t wait any longer. As the heat drifts up from the vent and mixes with the frigid November air that blows across my face, I panic.

My only thought is to rip out the screen. Without wasting another tick of the internal clock, I snatch a shirt from the hamper to my right and wrap it around my hand. My footsteps were far too loud, but time is more important.

I take one more look back at the door before punching through the screen. It breaks surprisingly easily and I nearly fall forward, the torn mesh scraping against my forearm. I contain my gasp and ignore how my heart seems to leap up my throat as I look down two stories to the cold hard ground below. It’s a sobering sight.

There’s a thin layer of white snow coating the grass and although the weather has let up, the air is sharp from the biting wind. I take a deep breath, pulling the ripped screen back and tearing it open more, protecting my hand with the clothing. Somehow ripping it wider is more difficult than making the initial tear.

My breathing comes in faster, and the light-headed sensation returns when the hole is large enough for me to climb through.

All the spiked edges of the broken screen are going to catch on my sweater, I already know. Once I get footing out on the sill, I’ll have to try to grip onto the pillar to my right and slowly climb down while balancing myself on the stones that line the house. It’s practically impossible. My head shakes of its own accord at the thought, refusing to feel defeated. I have to do this. I have no other choice.

The threads of my sweater snag like I knew they would the moment I climb through the window and brush against the screen, but I press forward. As my left foot finds purchase on the windowsill, the wind blows so forcefully that I cling to the frame with my right hand and consider abandoning the idea completely. I’ve gone absolutely mad. My nose and cheeks burn from the biting cold, and I have to close my eyes.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I refuse to go back in there. The second the wind stops, I finish crawling out and balance on the ledge, my knuckles bright white from holding on so tightly. Each time I have to readjust my grip, I’m filled with a renewed sense of terror. Only the balls of my feet are balanced on the thin ledge, and my hands already ache from clutching the window in the bitter cold.

I make the mistake of looking down and seeing how far I’d drop and how there’s nothing to break my fall if the wind were to blow too hard. Or if my grip gives out, or if something else happens and I fail. I don’t want to die.

A few moments pass and I simply can’t move. The wind whips my hair around my face and I shut my eyes tight, frozen by the vision of me plummeting to my death.


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