Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
I am.
I fucking am.
I’ve been livid ever since Mo told me. Ever since I realized that I’m like her.
I’m like Charlie.
And the worst thing is that it’s something that I always wanted. I always wanted to be like her so she could love me.
But I’m only now realizing how wrong I was.
I’m only now realizing the truth of who my mother was. The truth of all the things she did, all the things that she was responsible for.
And I never ever want to be that.
I never ever want to be the reason someone gets hurt or has scars and wounds. I never want to be the reason that someone has a bump on his nose and a fuck-ton of rage on the inside.
So no, I don’t want to be like my mother.
But I guess I am and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix that. How to go back in time and undo all the things that I did to him and…
Before I spiral down that hole of misery, I feel things shift and slide.
Because he’s moving. Because he’s gripping my wrist and taking it off his mouth. Because his abs are bunching up as he jackknifes on the bed, sitting upright and taking me with him.
But he doesn’t stop there.
He twists his torso so fast and with such athletic grace that it’s all I can do to hold on to him, his shoulders and his hips, as he reverses our position, making me gasp and making my heart whoosh in my chest.
Which means that now I’m the one lying flat on her back in the bed and he’s the one leaning over me.
He’s the one covering me, dwarfing me with his large body, which is settled in between my thighs, his pelvis locked with mine.
With his hands on either side of my head and him hovering over me like he’s going to do a push-up, he rumbles, “Are you done?”
“No,” I reply back, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Of course not. Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going to be done —”
“You’re done,” he rumbles again, interrupting me, his eyes moving all over my features.
“Alaric —”
“You’re a wildcat, you know that?”
I frown. “What? That’s not even —”
“No, that’s not true. You’re not just a wildcat. You’re a dragon.”
I fist his shirt and squeeze his hips with my thighs. “Alaric, listen to me, okay? I have a very devious mind. I can do things to these people. I’ve been trained my entire life to do things to these people. What do you think all my plotting and planning has been for? And —”
His lips twitch as his eyes keep roaming over my features that I’m pretty sure are flushed with anger still. “You’re a pocket-sized dragon.” Then, as if to himself, “Angry little Poe is a pocket-sized dragon.”
My belly swirls with heat.
It boils and surges with heat.
It surges with the fact that I’m all spread out under him and he’s looking at me like I’m the most wondrous thing in the world.
With rapidly diminishing breaths, I whisper, “It’s not funny.”
His eyes change then.
They go a little darker and harder as he says, “No, it’s not. It’s fucking hilarious that you think you’re like her.”
“What?”
He keeps studying my features as he continues, “It’s downright comic and tragic that you think you could be like anyone but yourself. That anyone could have your fire, your light. That anyone could burn as bright as you. As loud as you. It’s fucking laughable to think that anyone could command attention like you do or that anyone is even worthy of utmost focus and devotion and loyalty like you are. Least of all Charlie. You’re you and you do the things you do because you’re you. You fight and push back and stand up for yourself. And then you wait. You wait for someone to see you, to love you, to give you your first fucking kiss. And you do all that because you’re a fighter. You fight for the things you love. You fight for the people you love. When in a fair world, you shouldn’t have to. In a fair fucking world, people wouldn’t be so stupid and they wouldn’t be so blind. So no, Poe, you’re not like your mother or anyone else. Because you can’t be. Because you’re too fucking original and because it’s the world that’s too stupid to understand you. Is that clear?”
By the time he finishes, I can’t breathe.
I can’t get air into my lungs.
But that’s okay because I’m living on his words. I’m living on the ferocity of them, on the ferocity of his features. They are sharp and dark and so beautiful.
So dear to me.
“Now I want you to promise me something.”
His eyes look determined and angry now. Not as angry as they did when I confessed things about Jimmy but still it’s enough to make me nod right away and agree. “Anything.”