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)
"It's just stuff." I shrug it off even though I'm all kinds of pissed about it. "I know you probably don't want me here, but I'm crashing on your couch tonight. With your windows busted, I don't want you here alone. I'll have someone out to replace them tomorrow."
"You don't have to do that."
"Yeah, I do. His beef is with me right now, not you."
She tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear and cocks her head to the side. "Did you seriously arrest seven of his people?"
"Yes."
"By yourself?"
I nod.
"Is that what happened to your neck? You're bleeding a little."
"Dante tried to stab me," I mutter, reaching up to prod at the small wound. It's barely even a scratch.
She shivers as if the thought of Dante stabbing me bothers her. "He always hated you," she whispers, her dulcet voice sweet as hell. "I'm glad you're okay."
I pull my phone out of my pocket. "You recognize either of these pricks?"
She takes the phone from me and examines the screen capture I took of the fuckers who broke out her windows. She studies it carefully before shaking her head and handing the phone back over to me. Her fingers brush across mine, sending a jolt through me.
I think she feels it, too. She stares at me for a second and then drops her gaze to my feet, hiding those emerald eyes from me. Even so, I can practically feel her hesitation and confusion. Her silence always had a way of saying more than she realized. It's the way she moves. When she's sad, she curls in on herself, making herself smaller. When she's angry, her leg bounces up and down. When she's thinking, she goes completely still and stares into space, oblivious to what's going on around her. She's doing that now, staring at nothing.
I don't have to guess to know what she's thinking about. She isn't sure if she wants me here or not, isn't sure what she should want. I hurt her this weekend. That wasn't my intention, but that's what I did anyway. I was selfish, putting my fears above her needs. And now she's struggling, trying to figure out where we stand or where she stands with me.
Yet again, I've made her think I don't want her when the exact opposite is true. I want her so goddamn badly the thought of losing her for good is, quite literally, the worse scenario I can conjure up.
"Since she is here, in a place of blackness, here I stay and wait," I say softly.
She lifts her gaze to mine, a question in those pretty eyes.
I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it up over my head before dropping it and turning slightly so she can see what I'm talking about. "Your name on my side," I explain. "That's what's hidden in the letters. It's part of an untitled poem by Stephen Crane."
"What does it mean?" she asks, her curious gaze locked on the swirl of the words.
"It's what kept me alive for so long," I confess, watching her as intently as she watches me. "Being without you was hell, but I fought to survive because of you. Because so long as you were alive and breathing, I was determined to keep myself that way, too. I know you've been hurting, but you were never alone, January. I've been in the dark with you, waiting."
"Why?" she whispers.
"Because I never stopped loving you. Because it was my punishment for ruining your life. You keep thinking I don't want you, that I left because I didn't love you, but you're wrong. I left because the thought of you hating me tears me apart." I reach for her hand and place it on the jagged scar that runs across my side. "I got this a little over a year ago when a gang decided they were going to gang rape a fifteen-year-old who thought she wanted to join up."
Pain flares in her eyes, and her hand trembles on my body.
"I seriously injured four people and killed three others that day, sweetheart," I confess, my voice soft. Before she can react to that, I move her hand, putting it over the scar across my abdomen. "I got this one when a guy a lot like Kaleo decided he wanted to make a name for himself by taking me out. I killed him and the eighteen-year-old kid he brought along to help him."
"Cade," she whispers, but I don't let her finish.
I need to get this out before she says anything. If I don't, I'm not sure I'll be able to do it at all.
I drop to my knees in front of her and place her hand over the two scars on my chest. "I got these trying to take down a motorcycle gang. Before I passed out, I killed the guy who shot me." My hand shakes when I move hers to the last bullet wound, the most recent. "I got this one trying to rescue my friend at the DEA, Tristan. The same psycho who kidnapped his wife tried to kill him four months ago. The bastard's girlfriend shot me. I killed her, too."