Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
"You can't guarantee that," she says. "His family—"
"Doesn't matter," Kincaid interrupts. "He's done for good."
She gives him a quick nod, but the doubt still floating in her eyes tells me that she still believes that he's wrong.
"I promise," Kincaid continues. "We'll keep you updated with everything we can on his case."
Juliet nods, her arms brushing mine. I move a little, thinking she didn't intend to touch me, but then her palm is brushing mine, her fingers wrapping around my hand.
I hate the bandages wrapped around my wounds because they prevent me from feeling the full warmth of her touch.
I look down at her as she looks back up at me.
"Ready to leave?" I ask, purposely avoiding saying the word home.
I don't want it to trigger a rejection from her, with her telling me the clubhouse isn't her home. I don't know what that clarification would do to me right now, and although I've never been a man to avoid any situation in fear of what the end might be, things are just different with her.
I'm in no hurry to pull off this band-aid and face the things I know are coming. At least for tonight, I can stay in my delusion that things with Juliet and me don't have to end.
Not that they ever had a beginning.
With our hands locked together, I guide her toward the row of SUVs, using the key fob Kincaid gave me to identify which one we're taking.
The taillights flash on one in the middle of the row, and once we're standing outside of it, I open the passenger side door for her and wait for her to climb inside.
Her movements are a little guarded, as if the tussle with Whitmore hurt her more than she outwardly appears. It's just one more reason to hate the man with every part of my being.
I pause at the back of the SUV, clenching my fists and pulling in a deep breath, trying with the exhale to release all that negative shit.
I remind myself that she may be a little sore and have a wound on her neck, but she's still alive. For the time being, her monster is out of commission, fully ignoring the whisper that I'm the other monster in her life right now, because unlike Whitmore, I'd never do anything to cause her harm.
Getting out of the parking garage takes more than a little maneuvering with all the cops' cars, but after a few minutes, we're on the road back to the clubhouse, the silence in the vehicle nearly deafening.
I can't count how many times I open my mouth to speak, but find my thoughts not appropriate for the moment. It isn't until we hit the outskirts of town, only a few miles away from the Cerberus gate, that she speaks.
"You protected me tonight," she whispers, her eyes locked outside of her window.
"As long as you allow it, I'll always protect you."
"Relentlessly," she continues. "Without hesitation."
"Yes," I quickly agree.
"Why?" she asks, and although I can feel her shift her gaze to me, I keep my eyes locked on the road.
"You deserve to be protected."
"Every woman does," she clarifies.
"They do."
"I'm one of many," she says. "One of too many."
"We're trying to change that," I say, my grip tightening on the steering wheel.
The idea that with every person we help, hundreds don't get that protection has always been a consideration when I choose to remove an abuser from the earth.
She shouldn't be here, wondering not if Whitmore is going to come after her again, but when he'll get his next chance.
She should be free and feel lighter. Her monster should be gone forever.
By protecting me, she chose to continue to live with that fear, and as much as it means to me to be put first, I'd gladly rot in prison for the rest of my life for her to not have to worry if she's safe for the rest of hers.
"I would've killed him," I confess.
"I know," she whispers.
I don't feel a sense of relief when she pulls her eyes from the side of my face.
"I believe that Kincaid believes he'll no longer be a problem," she says, her voice sounding more distant than it should with her sitting so close. "But I know his family. They'll do everything in their power to get him free."
"They can try," I mutter, my hands once again squeezing the steering wheel tight.
Scenarios run through my head—the idea of him walking out of jail and me waiting around the corner to end him, leading the pack.
Maybe they should let him out just so he can finally be gone from her long list of worries.
"He committed murder on camera. I don't imagine there's much the family can do to twist that in a way that would lead to his freedom," I explain. "Kincaid will do everything in his power, call in all the favors he's built over the years to make sure that man is never released."