Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I cried for young Crow, who’d been denied his mother’s affection. Who hadn’t known what it was like to be held by her, to have her kiss away his tears, to have her paint a Christmas tree on the wall because she knew it would make him happy.
I was lucky. I had those memories of my mom. I would always be able to carry them with me.
When my tears finally slowed, as much as it hurt, as much as it devastated me, I opened the book and read more—the things she’d been through, the evidence she was gathering on Chosen to try to get him thrown into prison, to set everyone free.
And through it all, her love for her son shined brightly.
I read Crow’s additions, his regrets. How he hated himself for not saving her, for believing in Chosen, for not making sure she knew how much he loved her.
I read about Hillary and the pain and punishment. I read about the psychological abuse, the prayers, the worship, and all the ways Chosen had made them show their devotion to him—eating things that would make them temporarily sick, sharing their wives, watching him fuck them and him watching Crow with Hillary.
Crow, who’d been through more pain, more heartache than anyone should ever have to endure, yet he loved with a passion unmatched.
I flipped the page, expecting more stories about Crow’s life before, about his mom, but that wasn’t what I saw.
There was a man in the hardware store today. He watched me, but not the same as the others do, not like I’m someone he will cross the street to avoid, or someone who deserves for women to clutch their purses when they see me.
He doesn’t look at me like I’m wrong…but like for some reason, he just can’t look away.
He brought me food, the man, Cyrus. Billy cornered me at the grocery store. I lost it, felt disconnected, like I wasn’t real. It was like it used to be in foster care. My mind turned off, and I just reacted, but then I heard him…Cyrus. And somehow he pulled me out of it. I left my food in the cart, and he brought it to me. I stalked him, followed him as he tried to get to me, making sure he stayed safe. But that was only part of it. I enjoyed following him, seeing him hear a noise and turn around but not see me. I don’t figure that’s normal, but that’s me. I’m at home on my mountain, keeping it safe.
But I didn’t need to be safe from him.
He should be kept safe from me.
I wanted to fuck him. Wanted to take him, but then he got hurt, and all I wanted was to make sure he was okay. To protect him. To take care of him.
It was…unnerving.
I brought him to my home. Watched him. Didn’t take my eyes off him as he slept.
Haven’t stopped thinking about him since.
The entries about me were short, bits and pieces of his feelings, his confusion, but his want for me… Even from the first time he saw me, Crow felt the same connection to me that I felt to him.
I fucked him against the door, took him hard like I was an animal. He should stay away from me.
I want him to stay.
I watch him sleep, want to touch him, have to bite down on my hand not to. He is…breathtaking.
I don’t want to let him go. Ever.
I can’t stop painting him.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
I flipped the page. There was nothing left, and all I could think was how much I needed Crow.
I scrambled out of bed, an invisible pull from my chest tugging me toward him. I hurried from the room, naked, with the dried cum still on me. I wore it proudly because for me, it was another way to show I was Crow’s.
He sat on the couch, in the spot I’d taken as mine. Deep inside, I knew why. It made him feel close to me. Crow likely sat there all this time, breathing in the scent of me on the fabric so he wasn’t alone.
His back was stiff, his head tilting up when I approached. Pain was etched in every line of his face, every tense muscle, and in the way his lips turned down in a frown.
“I wasn’t fair to her. I didn’t love her the way she deserved. I—”
“No. None of that was your fault. You were a child. She loved you, and it wasn’t your fault,” I reiterated, then climbed onto his lap.
Crow’s whole body melted into me, his arms fixed around me like the thought of letting go was too scary for him to contemplate.
I had always cried easily. Kids at school would tease me about it. There’s this strange concept that men don’t cry. That we don’t show emotion and that having emotions makes us weak.