Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
"It's okay to laugh."
"I watched you kill a man."
"We can debate his right to ever call himself a man some other time. But yeah, you did, babe. And in the interest of full disclosure, that wasn't even the first man I killed today trying to find you."
"Wait. Who-"
"They weren't innocent," I cut her off. "For a while there, I thought the drive-by guys and this one had something in common. Regardless of that, though, this was the end they were going to meet. It's just been a busy day."
"You shouldn't have to kill someone because of me."
"I didn't have to do shit. I wanted to. I get that this is new for you, babe, but it's been a rough year. I have more than a handful of bodies behind me. I get that coming to terms with that might not be easy, but that is how it is. That's what this life is like. It's kill or be killed. Sometimes, it is not business, but personal."
"But this was... this was neither," she insisted, her gaze falling away.
"This was personal," I told her, reaching out, carefully grabbing her chin, forcing her head up. "He fucked with you. That means he fucked with me too."
"But we're not..."
"No?" I cut her off, brows raised. "I think we are. Or we are heading that way, at least. Weird timing to say that shit, but it's true."
"It's okay if it isn't that way," she said, not believing me.
"Look, babe. I'm not that guy. The one who makes declarations in some attempt to get ass or something like that. I don't need to play those games. I've never been someone who even wants to say that shit. But I'm saying that shit. So I mean it. Now, if you don't want it to be that way—"
"I do," she cut me off. "I know it's early to say that, but I think there's something here. At least I think we should, you know, see if it goes anywhere. Now that all the shooting and kidnapping is over with."
"Gonna level with you, babe. The shooting will likely never be over with. Though, as soon as we get back to the clubhouse, I will be doing everything in my power to make sure no one could ever come in and just take you—or anyone else—again."
"I know that your job isn't, you know, the safest. That's something I can learn to live with. And, ah, I want to, you know, learn some other stuff too."
"Other stuff," I repeated.
"How to shoot," she told me. "I've never even held a real gun. And all of this today, it makes me want to, I don't know, learn how to fight to something. Just so if anything like this ever happens—"
"It won't."
"But if it did," she insisted. "I don't want to freeze up like that again. Or have to rely on dumb luck and a food tray to be able to just barely get away, only to be caught again. I want to be able to defend myself."
"I think it's a good idea." And I was starting to understand why all the women who shacked up with the men of the mother chapter of our club ended up taking extensive martial arts classes.
"Maybe we can spar together," she suggested, smile a bit... suggestive. Or maybe that was my wishful thinking since we were both stark-fucking naked in a bathtub.
My gaze lowered, roaming over her body, seeing the bruises on her shoulder, her back, her thighs, even her shoulder. He'd struggled to get her out of the house, being a small, weak fucking excuse for a man. So he bumped her all around after a serious neurological issue.
"Think I would be down for that," I told her, trying to keep my tone light. "When you're back in fighting shape."
"Hey, are you calling me fat?"
"What? No. Where the fuck did that come from? I carried you all the way here."
"It was just something he said. I didn't expect it to bother me."
"He had arms like fucking limp noodles. It wasn't about you. And that wasn't what I meant. I meant that you're sore all over. It doesn't look like there is anywhere I could touch you without hurting you."
"Here," she said, reaching under the water, grabbing my hand, pulling it over, and placing it just above a bruise on her hip. "That doesn't hurt," she told me. "Neither does this," she added, moving my hand up her belly, pressing it over her bare breast.
"Harmon..."
"I want your hands on me. I don't want his hands to be the last that were on me," she said, tone taking on a hint of desperation again.
And, really, could I deny her that?
I didn't know if it was the right move, if it was the healthy thing to do, all I knew was that she thought it might make her feel better, might make the memory of this whole shitstorm of a day a little better.