Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“I asked for it.”
“You didn’t ask me to assault you, January.”
“You didn’t. I was a willing participant. Don’t act like I wasn’t.” I tug his head back, forcing him to meet my eyes. “I know what it’s like to almost be on the other side of that, remember? You didn't do anything I didn't want.”
He flinches from the memory and then nods once.
We sit in silence for a long moment as his cum drips down my legs.
“No one's ever said his name to me,” he rasps eventually. “I haven’t heard it out loud since…”
“No one says it to me either. It's like they died, and the whole fucking world would prefer to pretend they never existed at all.”
“I miss him every fucking day.”
“Me too,” I whisper, a single tear slipping down my cheek.
“I’m so goddamn sorry, little monster. So goddamn sorry.” He trembles again, shaking like an addict going through withdrawal. The guilt in his voice hurts to hear.
I want to ask again why he blames himself, but I already know he won't tell me. And I don't have it in me to fight with him right now. In this moment, I just want to be here, right here in his arms, sharing our pain. We can don our armor and pick up our weapons again later. But for five minutes, I just want to hold him and grieve.
We never even got to do that. Not really. Everything was so fucked up back then.
“You know why I fight so hard for my house and this neighborhood?” I ask, laying my head against his shoulder.
“It's the only thing you have left.”
“It's the only place where I feel like they still exist. Even people who loved him won't look me in the eye or say his fucking name. But here, they're everywhere. Here, I’m not so fucking alone.” And he's everywhere, too. Every single memory of him I have is tied to this house, this neighborhood. I fight to keep it because, without it, I lose the last pieces of him I have, as well as the remaining ties to my family. I've spent seven years holding onto this place, waiting for him to come back. It's the only place I feel like I exist anymore.
“You aren't alone, January.”
“I've been alone for seven years, Cade.” Another damn tear rolls down my cheek. “And the worst part is knowing that I did it to myself.”
He wraps his hand around my jaw, gently forcing my head back until my eyes meet his. “What does that mean?”
“I’m the one who told you to leave.”
He flinches as if that memory hurts even now. “You aren't to blame for the choices I made, January.”
“Oh, really? Would you have walked out that door if I hadn't said what I did?”
He clenches his jaw, refusing to answer, which is answer enough. He never would have made that choice on his own. Even if he felt guilty or like he didn't deserve me or whatever, he would have stayed and fought. But I told him to go, told him that I hated him, and he believed me. Because whatever he thinks he did made him so sure that's what he deserves—my hatred.
I destroyed us. Maybe his secrets would have done it eventually. I don't know. I never gave us that chance. Everything we are, everything we've become—that's on my shoulders.
If I’m drowning in loneliness, the only place I need to look to see the culprit is in the mirror.
I sigh, resting my head against his shoulder again. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Anything,” I whisper. "Tell me about you and your life in Seattle. Tell me what you do, where you go. Your dreams. Tell me anything.” I’m desperate to know the pieces of him I missed—the parts of his life that I didn't get to watch unfold. I had front row seats for so long. It feels wrong that there are entire volumes missing from his story now. I need to know what’s written in them, desperately.
“There isn't much to tell.” He shifts around, putting his back up against the wall across from the door. “I dropped out of college and enlisted. Didn't even make it a year before I got the boot. Guess I wasn't big on authority. From there, I started hauling criminals in off the street. They gave my ass a job instead of putting me in a cell. The rest is history.”
We both know that's a lie. The rest is why people around here talk about him like he's the boogeyman. It's the reason he's covered in scars he won't talk about. It's how he's punished himself.
“Why Seattle?”
“It's as far as I got after...” He clears his throat. “My bike broke down outside Nazario Leyva's mansion on my way out of town. I ended up saving his life. He put me on a plane to Seattle as thanks. Once I washed out, they sent me back. I couldn't come back here so…Seattle.”