Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Her glare goes straight to Leo.
He coughs and stares at his boots.
I empty my expression.
She shoves back her shoulders. “I swear on the fires in hell, if you don’t tell me what happened, I’ll make sure you end up on life support, begging for every breath while I control the plug.”
“She’s back.” Leo’s lips twitch.
I grunt, hiding my amusement.
Goddamn, I love her viciousness.
“Woman, listen…” Stepping forward, I try to formulate the best way to tell her.
But Monty saves me from the task. “I sent you into a panic attack. It might’ve been a PTSD episode.”
“I don’t have PTSD.”
“We don’t know that.” Pressing his palm against the cut on his neck, he walks her through what happened in the kitchen.
When he finishes, she sits back on her heels, looking stunned, embarrassed, and ashamed.
“I’m so sorry.” She cups a hand over her mouth and slowly shakes her head. “I don’t remember. I don’t know why I would’ve—”
“Shhh.” Monty tugs her arm down, uncovering her face. “It’s not your fault. I triggered it. I shouldn’t have crept up on you. Blame me.”
“No. I won’t blame you.” Shadows of sorrow cloud her eyes as she peers closer at the wound. “You need stitches.”
He nods, knowing better than to argue with her in this state. “All right, but no hospital. We can take care of it here. There’s a first aid kit—”
“I know where it is.” Leo fixes me with a look, a wordless order to watch her, before leaving the room.
He’s familiarized himself with every inch of this estate, every item in every cabinet, including the attic space.
“I don’t remember any of it.” She stares at her hands on her lap, her eyes hazy and unfocused. “It’s a blur except for this feeling of…of being trapped.”
“Hey.” Monty sets a knuckle beneath her chin, lifting her face. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll call some psychiatrists in the morning and find someone who can make house calls to the island. We’ll get you the help you need.”
“I want Doyle.” She moves his hand. “No one else.”
“Who’s Doyle?” My brows knit.
“The psychiatrist she saw when her mom passed.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like him because he’s attractive.” Her eyes flash with annoyance.
“Now I don’t like him.” I frown.
“Great,” she mutters.
“I don’t like him because I don’t trust him.” Monty straightens. “He’s too friendly with you, too eager to make you dependent on him.”
“God forbid I have a friend.” She throws her hands in the air. “You don’t trust anyone. Doyle knows my history. He understands me. And he doesn’t keep my unfinished drinks on his nightstand for nine months.”
He flinches but quickly recovers. “This isn’t about me. It’s about finding someone who can genuinely help you, not someone who wants to fuck you.”
“What?” She clambers from the bed, eyes on fire. “You think everyone with a dick wants to fuck me.”
“They do.”
“Are you hearing this?” She turns her anger on me.
If this Doyle guy wants to fuck her, I’m taking Monty’s side. But for now, I withhold my judgment and say nothing.
That only incenses her more, and she whirls back on Monty. “You’re so damn controlling. I need someone who can actually connect with me, not dictate what’s best for me.”
“I’m trying to protect you, darling.”
“I’m not your darling.”
“I want what’s best for you.” He grinds his teeth. “Even if you can’t see it right now.”
“And what do you think is best for me?” She pins him with the force of her glare. “You?”
He glares right back.
The room vibrates with the intensity of their argument, both of them too stubborn to back down.
Time to defuse the situation.
“You, back in bed.” I grip her arm, steering her there. “And you.” I point at Monty. “Shut the fuck up.”
He growls.
“Focus on getting through tonight.” I stand over him, folding my arms. “The rest will wait until morning.”
Leo returns with the first aid kit, instantly sensing the tense atmosphere.
“What’s going on?” He hands the kit to her.
“Nothing.” Her shoulders slump, her anger giving way to exhaustion. “Just Monty being…Monty.”
Monty releases a slow breath and pushes off the bed. “I’ll do this myself.” Grabbing the medical kit from her, he charges to the door.
“Wait.” She sits up, her movements shaky but resolute. “Stop. Please. I’m sorry.”
He reaches the threshold, not stopping.
“Always walking away from me,” she whispers under her breath.
At that, he pauses.
Turning back to her, he looks like he’s about to explode. “Frankie, I’m not—”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” She pats the mattress beside her. “Sit.”
Long seconds pass before he returns and sits beside her. “No stitches. Use the butterfly closures.”
“I disagree, but whatever.” Bracing a hand on his shirtless chest, she leans in with an intimacy that makes my skin crawl.
Her attention on his wound is all business, but her face drifts too close to his. I don’t like the way his lips part or how intensely he studies her.