Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
My body has a tendency to give up on me in these types of situations, as if it’s just had enough and would like to rest.
For a moment.
The stench reeking through the alley does nothing to propel me into action. But then again, what’s the point of running when he’ll keep coming back again?
And again.
Until I’m finally no more.
I gulp past the sandpaper taste at the back of my throat as he strides toward me at a frightening fast pace.
He is frightening.
From the way he’s built—broad and tall and muscular—to how he seems to wear a permanent scowl or how his eyes darken in increments. Like pools of deep brown that can only be found in the depths of hell.
It doesn’t help that he’s dressed all in black again. Though there are no gloves today. The veins on the backs of his hands tighten as he flexes them, and I make out a black ring with unintelligible symbols on his left hand’s index finger as he kills the distance between us.
I instinctively stiffen my body and mentally prepare myself for the hit. Not sure why I expect him to shove me to the ground like Mama used to, with a palm to my face, because I disgusted her.
But his palm doesn’t come.
And neither does his fist.
Both his hands are inert at his sides as he stops a few feet away from me.
Despite the lack of violence, I don’t release a breath of relief, my body remaining tense because he’s close.
I can breathe him in.
Leather and wood.
Danger and retribution.
All wrapped in a gorgeous exterior I can’t look away from.
“Why did you look back?” Jude asks with a tinge of veiled infuriation.
As if I annoy him.
Like I used to annoy my mom.
I remain silent, not knowing what I should say that won’t annoy him any further. Because that’s how it starts—mild annoyance that escalates to shoves and curses, and then I’m beaten up and locked in a closet.
I can never go back to that closet. I…can’t do closets.
Just the thought quickens my breathing and fills my turbulent headspace with smudges of red.
“Why the fuck aren’t you running, Violet?” Jude’s booming voice pulls me out of my sinister thoughts and I jump a bit.
I hate how I immediately slide to the edge whenever anyone yells.
I’m not an idiot. I know it has to do with the cocktail of traumas Mama gave me instead of affection, but I don’t know how to fix it.
Or if I ever could.
“What’s the point?” I whisper, looking down at my shoes, at the neatly tied laces and the scratched-up white fabric.
“What’s the point?” he repeats with an edge, stepping forward until his black boots are in my field of vision. Big and intimidating like the rest of him.
“Yeah.” I lift my shoulder. “It’s not like I can outrun you.”
“Look at me.”
I lift my head because the firm tone suggests retribution if I don’t.
I immediately regret it.
Eye contact with Jude is no different than being dragged into the depths of a somber forest with no way out.
Prickling hate and volcano-level rage shimmer behind his brown irises, and the hopeless part of me that feels others’ pain before my own can actually see his.
It’s convoluted, like it’s become something darker and more vicious, but it’s there.
And some stupid part of me would love to ease it a little, make him…feel better.
Somehow.
Someway.
I can help him, screams my naïve side, knowing my death would do him the greatest favor.
“If you think you can’t outrun me, should that stop you from fucking trying, Violet?” He’s speaking in that tone again, somewhat angry but also frustrated.
And I don’t understand why he seems pissed off that I’m not running. Isn’t that what he wants?
“It would be a waste of both our time,” I say.
“With that mentality, it sure fucking would be.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say or do.” I release a breath. “If I run today, so what? You’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. It’s not like I can run or hide forever.”
“No, you can’t. Not when that’s your train of thought.” He steps forward, and my leg twitches to step back as I look down at the shortened distance between our shoes.
“I said. Look at me.” His order makes my body tense up with both discomfort and something else I can’t quite pinpoint.
I halt, my nails digging harder into the backpack straps, the wound from when I picked up the shards of the glass I dropped when I saw him across the street earlier throbs in needle-like pain. All I want to do is touch my wrist, but I don’t want to draw his attention to it again.
“How the fuck did you survive this long with that mentality, hmm?” He tilts his head, watching me like I’m something broken he’s trying to dissect. “It’s like you’re asking to be killed.”