Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
His jaw moves.
This, I notice clearly.
And then I notice something else.
That I’m standing on my own now. That I don’t need him to support me anymore.
Which means I should move back and take my hands off his biceps. Which also means that he should move back and take his hands off me as well.
Not to mention, I should stop trying to study his face.
The nuances of it all because they’re hidden by the shadows. All because I have this strong urge to study the curvature of his cheekbones and the count the number of his eyelashes.
Oh, and his mouth.
His plush, pillow-y, watermelon-y mouth.
Just as the thought flashes through my head, he moves.
As if he knew.
He knew what I was thinking about, and, embarrassed, I follow his lead.
Once we have moved away from each other, he exhales a sharp breath. “Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.”
And just like that, he turns around and starts walking toward the highway. When we clear the woods, my eyes go wide.
Because there it is.
His bike.
It’s real. I didn’t dream that he has a bike now.
I didn’t dream that I rode on it last night when he wouldn’t stop insisting on bringing me back to campus, nope. While last night other things took precedence in my brain, tonight I’m super duper intrigued by his bike.
An honest to God motorcycle.
“What happened to your car?” I ask while he’s busy being bent down and fiddling with something that I can’t see. “Or rather carssss.”
Because he had a lot of them.
I guess when you’re born rich, you can change cars like you change clothes. And he did. Change them a lot I mean. From cherry red to gunmetal gray, he had cars in all colors and makes and models.
So this is kind of a surprise.
This sleek bike with high handles and tires that look massive, which I now realize, I’ve seen on TV.
“Hey, it’s a Harley Davidson,” I say, noticing the logo on the front. “Reign Davidson rides a Harley Davidson.” I chuckle. “Aww. Made for each other. Is that why you got it?” I join my hands in enthusiasm. “Are you going to marry your bike one day, Reign? It could be an epic love story. I mean, if you knew what love was, but maybe Harley can teach you and —”
I choke on my words when he turns around.
And I see him.
Now that we aren’t under the thick canopy of trees, I see his face.
And holy God, it’s… carnage.
His face is ravaged.
His lower lip is split and swollen. There’s a cut on the side of his forehead, one on his right eyebrow. One of his eyes is on the verge of being swollen shut. The bridge of his nose is all dark and discolored. Not to mention, all these mini but vicious looking wounds all over his jaw and his cheeks.
“What the…” I breathe out, my gaze barely able to take and register all of the mayhem. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t answer of course.
I don’t even think he can, because just look at him.
Look at his jaw. It’s tightly clenched.
So tightly that I can see the muscle on his battered cheek standing taut.
Vibrating too, as if he’s gritting his teeth.
It’s because of the pain, isn’t it?
He’s in pain.
He’s in so much pain.
How the hell did he manage to catch me back there? How the hell did he ride his bike here?
No, actually how the hell is he even standing up?
“You… I don’t… What… happened?”
He offers me something. “Wear this.”
It’s the helmet.
But I ignore it.
Because now that I know he looks like that, his voice sounds pained as well, and I keep pushing. “What happened to you? I-I mean, you were fine when I last saw you. You only had that one bruise and —”
I stop talking when he steps up to me and puts the helmet on my head himself. But before he can begin to buckle the strap, I grab his wrists.
“Tell me what happened. Who did this to you?”
He grits his teeth again. “Why?”
“Because,” I flex my fingers, noticing a gash-like wound on his cheek that’s now stitched up, but still. “You look like… You look like death. You look like you’re in pain.”
“And?”
“And this is much worse than the bruise on your jaw the other night. This is… How could this have happened? What… What did you do?”
Jesus.
He got in a fight, didn’t he?
Although in all the years that I’ve seen him get into fights, he’s never looked like this. He’s never looked so ravaged. I can’t even imagine what he must’ve done for someone to beat him up like this.
I can’t…
And God, I’m so… mad.
I’m so freaking mad at this unknown person. I’m so angry and…
“You worried about me?” he asks, his voice pure gravel right now.
Breaking into my, yes, worried thoughts.