Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
It’s the first night in a long time I don’t sleep with the lights on.
There’s no need.
I’m safe.
3
Evan
One Month Later
I underestimated how much of a struggle this would be.
Pretending the way I feel about Jolie is normal.
I’m getting ready for “work,” standing at the kitchen counter in a tie I once used to strangle a man to death, sipping coffee and trying like hell to remain still. To look like a regular husband. This is my morning process while she’s in the shower and getting dressed, humming so prettily to herself. I stand here and struggle against the blinding urge to storm into our bedroom, pin her down and fuck her again. Again. Again. Even though I already had her twice this morning. Once on her hands and knees in bed. Once on the edge of the bathroom sink.
My cock is strangled in my slacks, begging to be let out.
But I have to control my lust for her. I have to keep it at bay as much as possible, so she can believe me to be her normal husband. That’s what she asked for. That’s what she needs.
And it’s working for her, this normalcy.
In addition to her own strength, our routine, the support of having someone at home who loves her…it’s part of what’s healing her.
So I will stay the course.
The day after we spent our first night together, I slowly started moving in. Leaving boots in her mudroom, my toothbrush in the cabinet. A shirt in her laundry.
I fucked her blind every night. Addicted us both.
God, we are so very addicted.
The privilege of calling her my wife only deepens the constant ache. I was able to wait all of two weeks before asking Jolie to be my wife, presenting her with a diamond surrounded in yellow topaz stones that remind me of her eyes. My sanity hinged on her saying yes and she did. She did, tearfully, throwing herself into my arms, and I could barely believe my luck.
It happened.
I found my angel and made her mine.
No, I have to keep her. Safe. Happy. Untouched by anyone but me.
Forever.
My hands grip the edge of the counter when I hear the distinct slither of her panties being dragged up her thighs, hiding away the pussy I crave sixty minutes out of every hour. If I concentrate hard enough, I swear I can hear her heartbeat from the other room. My pulse beats in the same tempo, same speed.
Jolie sails into the kitchen, her face bright and flushed and gorgeous.
She’s wearing yoga pants and a snug T-shirt that molds to her gorgeous tits.
I almost break off the edge of the counter.
“Good morning.” She bites her lip and ducks her head. “Again.”
“Good morning.” I order myself to back up and refrain from kissing her. It’s painful, but neither one of us will ever make it out the door. “I made your cheese toast,” I say, triple-checking my handiwork, then handing her the plate.
My wife gives a little intake of breath. “Thank you.”
If she knew what I was, if she knew I was lying, would she love me?
Would she try to leave?
These fears echo inside me constantly. They probably will forever.
They might drive me madder than I already am.
Jolie leans back against the counter and takes a bite of her favorite breakfast. Multigrain toast with a slice of cheddar on top. “Mmmm.” She swallows, smiling at me while I watch her throat, mesmerized. “It always tastes better when you make it.”
“You didn’t realize you’d married a culinary master, did you?” I say, straight-faced. “Toast. Cereal. Putting ice cream in bowls. There’s nothing I can’t do.”
Her giggle sends my heart into a fit of skipped beats. “I like cooking, so you’re safe. Besides, you kill the spiders. That’s what really counts.”
I kill a lot more than that, honey.
For instance, the man who kidnapped you.
It’s good to have contacts on the inside.
I wasn’t always a killer. I grew up relatively normal in the suburbs, although I didn’t have a lot of friends. Relating to people never came naturally. My interest in books about the military history and war led me to join the army out of high school and there…there is where I was taught how to kill. How to compartmentalize and execute without emotion. When my tours overseas were over and I was at loose ends, I fell back on what I knew. Easy as that.
Now she is all I want to know. All I want to study.
I continue to do jobs, but my mind is always here now. On her.
“Are you ready for today?” I ask Jolie.
She swallows with a little more effort, her good mood dimming. “I don’t know. Maybe I could put it off until tomorrow?”
The quiver of nerves in her voice causes an anguished twist in my chest. What I wouldn’t give to take away her painful memories. Crush them like bugs. I can’t do that, though. So I can only do everything in my power to show Jolie how strong she is. It would be easy to protect her myself for the rest of her life—and that is my instinct. Wrap her up in my arms, hide her away, keep her in the shadows where she’s comfortable. But she’s capable of more. She needs more from herself to be happy. Making her happy is my job, but over the course of our first month together, I’ve learned we have to share the job, whether it’s hard for me or not. “There are only women in the self-defense class. It’s taught by a woman, too. It’s a well-lit studio.”