Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
But I’m the one who’s confronted by the hard reality with every breath that passes and the panic not leaving her stiff body. She’s terrified of me.
“I would never hurt you,” I murmur and I’m not sure she heard me as tears leak from the corner of her eyes and her face presses against the pillow, refusing to meet my gaze. Clearing my throat, I tell her again, clearer and louder, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
My timbre trembles toward the end of my statement and that’s when I truly realize the damage of this raw moment between us. Both of us bared, and both of us scarred.
“You think I’d hurt you?” My tone is wounded.
Delilah’s inhale is stuttered with tears caught in her thick lashes. Bruises still linger along her cheek and down her jaw. I’m gentle as I cup her face, mindful of the pain she’s in. I swear I can feel it, I can feel her pain, and I haven’t the faintest idea if she can feel mine.
My gentle touch only elicits a harsh whimper from her. With my throat tight and the haze of what I thought was between us subsiding, I lean back, listening to the bed groan as I put more distance between us.
Instantly her nipples harden, the cool air replacing my warmth and I climb off the bed, placing the comforter over her body. With her wrists bound to the headboard, just as she’d cuffed me, I wait for her to look at me. Her lips are cracked and her eyes puffy. Her body badly beaten and weakened. Yet she’s still perfect to me.
When her sobs cease and she dares to peek up at me, I repeat the sentiment, “I would never hurt you.”
Shame seems to wash over her, but she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t tell me that she knows I wouldn’t. It’s a sharp knife to my heart realizing that she doesn’t know that truth. How could she not know?
“I thought you loved me,” I tell her and instantly feel foolish at the confession. Maybe it was something else. Pity. It’s been so long since I’ve fallen victim to that emotion. She didn’t love me, it was only pity.
“I do.” My gaze whips up from my battered hands to hers. The room is dark, the blinds and curtains still closed tight. It’s so quiet I can hear her swallow. “I do love you,” she admits, and I swear my heart pumps once, sending the warm blood where it’s meant to go, but it’s far too slow to keep the organ beating. There’s too much pain that floods the space.
“You thought I was going to hurt you,” I say, stepping back and the floorboard creaks beneath my weight. That’s when I realize I’ve never allowed anyone in here. There isn’t a soul who’s entered my home since the day I claimed it.
Yet I brought her in here, because, for some absurd reason, I thought she belonged here. It didn’t occur to me that perhaps I shouldn’t have brought her here. Not until this moment, as she stares back at me. Her eyes are filled with a knowing look as she whispers, “Yes, you scare me.”
The confession forces me to turn my back to her, my palms keeping me steady and upright as I flatten them against the top of the dresser. The old wood feels cold beneath my skin, but it holds me up as I let it sink in.
“Christopher,” she calls out and instinctually I condemn the name with a threatening tone as I tell her, “Don’t say that name again.” The murmur awards me a sharp intake from behind me. Yet again, since I’ve taken control, I hate myself.
Loving her has proven that in spades. The more I love her, the more I hate myself. Every event leading up to this moment swarms me. Regret lingers on all of them.
I question everything. Even the moments in the barn, when I let her father live because he truly loved her. How … wrong. How fucked up! Anger simmers along my skin and I rip away the thin T-shirt. My blunt nails drag across the back of my shoulders and up the nape of my neck.
“You scare me, but I love you.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I bite out, leaning forward on the dresser and slowly opening my eyes to see my reflection as I add, “I don’t deserve that.” The moment the statement is spoken, I deny it; I deserve everything she throws at me. I don’t hold any right to anything from her. Certainly not her honesty when I’ve kept so much from her for years. Sorrow and regret chill my skin, to my flesh, down to the marrow of my bones.
She murmurs, “You can love someone while fearing them.”
“No, you can’t.” It hurts to admit that, especially to her. To the only person I know I’ve truly loved since I was a child. Maybe I’m broken inside, so badly broken that I can’t recognize what true love is. I only imagined it.