Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Don’t fucking do that again, understand?” he says.
That’s it? Just that? I need him to fight me. Doesn’t he get it? This other thing, this other way he is, I can’t make sense of it. So, I curl my hands into claws and scratch down both sides of his face. I scream like some wild animal as I do, forcing him to hurt me back. Needing him to.
He curses under his breath and grips my hands, pulling them away. My fingernails are bloody and his grip is tighter than it’s been. Red lines form on his cheeks and I know they sting. Still, all he does is look at me like he pities me. Like I’m some pathetic thing to be pitied and I can’t stand it.
“Fight me!” I scream. “Fight me like a man!”
“I know the kind of men you’ve been around, but let me tell you something,” he starts, pulling my wrists behind my back. “Men don’t fight women. They don’t hit women.” He releases me and looks me over. “Go inside and get out of those wet things.”
That’s it? I turn around to try the door again, but it’s locked. He has the key which is why he’s not bothering to stop me.
“Let me out of here!”
“So you can go back to Petrov?”
“Yes!”
“That’s not happening. That’s never happening. He will never get his hands on you again. I’m taking you home.”
Home. God. There it is again.
“Don’t you remember your home?” he asks.
“I told you. I don’t have a home.”
“Yes, you do. With a grandmother who loves you. Who wants you back. With people who care about you.”
I shake my head, cover my ears to try to tune out his words. I can’t hear this. I don’t want to remember this. I can handle anything else. Beatings. Their hands on me. But this is too hard. Because this reminds me of everything and everyone I lost. The life that was stolen before I had a chance to live it.
“That was the last of my whiskey,” he says then, gesturing to the smashed remnants of the bottle.
“Punish me then.” I try because I need him to. I need him to hurt me because if he hurts me then I know where we stand. I understand that. In a way, I understand pain.
His forehead wrinkles and he studies me. I wonder what he sees. If he’s reading my mind.
“Do it,” I push.
“No.”
“Yes!” I grab hold of his patch and am about to yank it off in my rage when he catches my wrists. The next thing I know, he knocks my legs out from under me and hauls me over his shoulder. My wrists in one hand, the other arm wrapped around my thighs. He stalks down the hallway with me across his shoulders. I can hear a drill going but before I can see where it’s coming from, he opens another door and dumps me on a bed. Then he’s on top of me, his weight crushing my lungs making it impossible to breathe.
“Don’t do that. Don’t ever fucking do that. Am I fucking clear?”
“Why? Are you afraid I’ll see you for what you are?”
A moment passes between us, strange and fraught with an edge of danger and something else. Something dark. After the pause he releases my wrists to stretch my arms out to the sides.
“Am I fucking clear?” he asks, voice low. When I don’t answer right away, he continues. “I’m being patient with you, Mara.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
We’re so close, I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I’m panting. Worn out. And he’s breathing heavy, gaze searching my face, falling on my mouth.
I lick my lips because for a moment, I think the strangest thing.
I think he’s going to kiss me.
The room goes dead silent, even the drilling has stopped. But after an eternity, he leans away.
I blink, remember myself as my face flushes with heat. Does he know what I was thinking? Did he read my mind again?
“Fuck,” he mutters, looking away, shaking his head as he releases my arms, starts to lift his weight from me.
But then everything changes.
Because that’s when I feel it. Feel him.
He must know the instant I do because he shifts his gaze away and clears his throat, climbing off the bed. He stands, scrubs his face and I sit up. Before he can turn away, I see it. The erection he wants to hide.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says almost hoarsely. “Christ. It’s the last fucking thing I want.”
I get to my feet. Watching as he adjusts himself before turning back to me. He knows I know. He must.
“You’re like him. Just like him.”
He’s quiet for a very long moment, studying me intently before he answers. “I’m not like him.”
“I felt you.”
His jaw clenches.
“You may say you don’t want to fight me, but you got hard doing it. So how are you different?” I ask, not looking away.