Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Always me.
He cooked for me, fought for me, learned how to freaking dance for me, and I couldn’t even give him five minutes to show me how quick of a learner he was. I bet he picked it up fast; I bet he had perfect form and unmatched rhythm.
Dance with me, baby …
A true, physical ache stirs in my chest as his rasped words replay in my head for the hundredth time. When he spoke them, I didn’t catch the hint of nerves or the tiny bit of shyness that was woven within them. He stood there strong with sharp, crystal-colored eyes and a small smile as he asked me to take his hand.
I almost did, my mind so overtaken by his closeness in the calm that comes with his presence alone that I almost forgot where I was. All that mattered was where I wanted to be, and that was in his arms.
What’s more disgusting is if I could go back in time and do the evening over, I’m not so sure I would have done much differently.
My father cannot get his hands on Bastian.
He’ll take him from me and I …
I what?
I don’t fucking know, that’s what!
Huffing, I kick off the bathroom wall, only to drop my shoulders against the other one.
I want to rage. To walk into enemy lines, all so I can fight with someone, stab them with the stupid blade Bastian didn’t come back for and watch them bleed all over the floor.
It would slice skin so easily now that I sharpened it.
Goddammit, I’m going fucking crazy and it’s all Bastian’s fault!
My dad has me on complete and total lockdown. I’m not allowed to leave the manor unless it’s to skip over to campus and that’s it. The Enterprise has been taken off the table for me, my own fucking creation, and I’m not even allowed there. He keeps telling everyone it’s a security measure, but it’s not.
It’s his arrogant asshole way of doing all he can to keep me away from the boy he doesn’t want me near, the boy who could never meet his impossible standards. Sure, okay, he still thinks I’m sneaking away to meet some assassin who’s going to snipe me in my sleep or something equally ridiculous, but hey, his wife was murdered in the room they shared, so I guess I can’t blame him. Not that he’ll admit it.
And then there’s the Enzo issue and the fact that there doesn’t seem to be one.
There has been no sign of Enzo whatsoever. Zero movement at his estate, no record of his plane returning to the States as my dad claimed, nothing. From what Bronx gathered, he’s still sitting tight in Costa Rica, drinking mimosas for breakfast with a bunch of bougie businessmen. Or mass murderers who dress like businessmen, it really could be either and the latter is more likely.
The point is, he’s not here, and my sister still is, and there hasn’t been a single hint of trouble he claimed was coming, so what the fuck?
My leg starts to bounce and I flip my hair one way, only to flip it the other before counting down from ten.
It doesn’t work and I pull up the message threads again, rereading our last meaningless conversation that now means more than it should. I had told him I tried some sort of chili chocolate our dessert chef prepared, and it tasted like shit. He said he’d bring me one from a local market in his neighborhood because he was sure the two-dollar bar would change my mind. I didn’t tell him the chocolate the chef used was imported and cost a hundred times that, but I’m pretty sure he gathered as much. The cost part of it anyway.
And then I do what I told myself I wouldn’t, what Delta’s little ten-second exercise was supposed to keep me from doing.
I reread all twelve texts I’ve sent him since he disappeared that night, all left unanswered, wincing as I get to the last one …
Me: if you don’t respond, I’m going to assume this is done and the ban on keeping Dom out of my bed is void.
Yeah, not my proudest of moments, but the thought of Chloe consoling him brought literal vomit up my throat and the message was the result.
I fully realize there’s no way in hell that happened. He used her and she let him, which means he pulled something dirty to get his way. Blackmail, if I had my guess, but something sly nonetheless. She’s not his type. She’s weak and childish and brunette—
I cut off my own thoughts, closing my eyes and dropping my head against the wall. God, I’m so pathetic.
I send another message.
Me: I have to tell you something.
It’s a lie, sort of. I have lots of things I could tell him if he were to call, but nothing pressing … if you discount the pressure pressing in my fucking chest.