Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I slap him again. And again and again, and I do it because I want to punish him, brand him like he’s branded me. But this time, I have things to say too. Disjointed, broken, rambling things that begin and end in strange places and probably don’t make any sense at all.
“You clue the fuck in, asshole. I’m not free. I’m not clean and it’s your fault. You did things to me. You stripped me naked. And you t-tied me to a tree. You pointed y-your gun at me and made me suck it and I…” I hiccup and smack his chest. “I’ve never f-felt safe in my entire life like I did with you. So much so that I told you my biggest secret. I told you about my f-father and how he… I t-told you about my mother’s death and I’m supposed to just move on in three weeks? Like none of it was real, like it never happened.” I scratch his jaw at that, drag my nails along his neck. “And you won’t even look at me. You pretend I don’t exist and I can’t stop thinking about if you got any s-sleep last night. And that you missed your dinner yesterday and lunch today and how uncomfortable you were at the party. But you don’t care that you left me in your room, told others to look after me when it’s y-your job. You brought me here. You should be the one taking care of me. You, not your sister-in-law or your b-brother who can’t stop staring at me. I’m yours. You made me yours and I…”
I stop because I run out of steam. I do want to say more things, though. I have a lot more to say, but while I’m hiccuping and trying to catch my breath, he moves. He inches closer to me, and I feel his breath on my cheek, all hot and wild.
And while I’m trying to contend with that, with his sweet breath, I feel his mouth on my cheek. My left cheek, just under my eye, and I feel him licking my tears away. Something I wasn’t aware of. That I was crying.
Actually, he’s not licking, he’s drinking.
I can feel him sucking them down and I hear him swallowing them thickly. But there’s so many of them, my tears, that he has to catch the stream on his rough thumbs, his long fingers, scraping and rubbing my face. His hands remind me of where my hands are. They’ve somehow landed on his shoulders and I fist his shirt, sighing under his soft ministrations, thinking this is the first time he’s put his mouth on me like this, and oh Lord, it’s so soft.
Softer than I’d imagined. Hotter and wetter.
That all I can do is whimper and moan as I cling to his body. “W-what are you doing?”
“Taking care of what’s mine,” he rasps against my skin, his stubble stinging me.
I twist his shirt and say the exact opposite of what I just said: “I’m not yours.”
His mouth laps at my jaw. “Unfortunately for you, you are.”
“I—”
“I’m gonna kick his ass.”
“What?”
“Ax,” he says, his thumbs making circles on the apples of my cheeks. “Told him to stay away from you.”
“I don’t care about—”
“A cow’s delivery was breech,” he says next.
“What… What does that—”
“Today, at lunch.”
That’s when I understand what he’s doing. He is taking care of me. He’s answering all the questions I didn’t ask, or rather didn’t want to but blurted out anyway, and I just… God, my heart clenches in my chest.
“We were out a hand and the vet was late,” he goes on, licking and explaining. “So I had to pitch in.”
“Is she…” I clench my eyes shut and arch my back, despite myself. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he whispers at my jaw, his fingers in my hair. “It was hard. But she pulled through.”
“And the calf?”
“Tiny little thing but yeah, she’s okay too.”
“Okay”—I swallow—“good.”
“Went to see my parole officer after that,” he goes on.
“Your parole officer.”
“Now that I’m back in town.”
“Oh.”
“And Haven told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That you didn’t want me around. So I made myself scarce last night at dinner.”
I move my hands to his hair then and pull the strands. “Did you eat something, though?”
“No.”
I pull at his hair. “You shouldn’t skip meals.”
He rolls his forehead on my neck. “And you shouldn’t worry about me.”
“You should also see someone.”
“About what?”
“Your PTSD.” Before he can say anything, I continue, “I know you hate to hear this but I could see. You didn’t like being at the party. You didn’t—”
“This helps.”
“What?”
His chest moves with a breath. “Breathin’ you in.”
I bite my lip so hard it hurts. “I’m not—”
“And I couldn’t.”
I think I know which question he’s answering, but I still ask, “You c-couldn’t what?”
“Sleep last night.”
I go up on my tiptoes then, the pain in my chest is so huge. I wind my arms around his neck and whisper, “Because I wasn’t there?”