Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Living my new life.
Chapter 12
Lev
I’m not the brooding type.
Sleep usually comes easy to me. Most of the time, I’m entirely present in the moment, even when I’m struggling to contain some of my darker impulses. That’s what makes me so charming: when I’m having a conversation, I’m completely and totally inside of it. Distractions roll off my back like waves.
Except tonight. My wedding night.
Most men imagine sleeping with their pretty wife and consummating the rest of their lives. Even though that was never going to happen, I assumed we’d at least go to bed without hating each other.
Looks like I was wrong.
As I sit up alone in the living room drinking another whiskey to take the edge off, I keep reliving our first dance.
The bickering. The teasing.
The way she felt under my hands as I moved closer to her. I couldn’t control myself, and even though I knew I should shut my mouth and keep my distance, I couldn’t stop.
She drives me fucking crazy.
This sudden flood of confused emotions is hard to square with the way I’ve been for years. Because of my dark inclinations, I’ve shut myself down and worked hard to shove away anything remotely resembling a big feeling.
With Carmie, it’s like all that work is ruined.
She makes me feel. Mostly, I feel pissed off and resentful, but there are other emotions too.
Lust is at the top of the list.
God, that fucking girl. She looked so goddamn beautiful in that dress. Conservative and out of fashion, but it fit her perfectly. I could barely control myself every time she came near, which is why I stayed the fuck away for most of the night.
Until that dance.
Until she turned my life upside down.
How the hell am I going to be a father?
I know what it’s like to grow up with a monster in the house. I know what it does to a man if their only parental figure is a psychopath.
How can I possibly put my own child through something like that?
Everything is beyond fucked.
I’m about to do something evil and wickedly dangerous, and all the while I’m supposed to prepare for a baby.
How can I look myself in the mirror knowing that I’m about to become a dad while planning to murder my own father?
Sunlight streams in through the windows as I make coffee. I got a few hours of sleep on the couch at most. A hangover gnaws at my head.
I welcome the pain. I’m in a black mood, and no amount of caffeine’s going to cure the demons stirring in my chest. It’s around seven in the morning when I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and Carmie appears.
Her dark hair’s messy and pulled back in a bun. The clothes I gave her are rolled at the ankles and wrists and fit her curvy body like a bag, but my heart still leaps when she comes into the kitchen. Her eyes are bleary, and she looks almost as tired as I feel.
“Want some of this?” I grunt at her and pour a mug of coffee.
She hesitates before accepting it. “If I drink this stuff, will I be trapped here forever?”
I blink at her and frown. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know, like faeries? You eat and drink in their world, and then you can’t escape? Never mind, my brain isn’t working yet.” She groans as she sits down on my couch. “You know what’s really messed up? I’m not even supposed to have much of this.”
“Caffeine’s bad for the baby,” I say, remembering one of the very few things I know about pregnancy. No alcohol, no caffeine, and no raw fish. Beyond that, it’s a mystery.
“Just like everything fun, basically.” She stares longingly at the mug. “I love this stuff. I’ve been deeply addicted since I was a teenager.”
“Sounds healthy.”
“Definitely isn’t. And now here I am, thinking about another stupid thing I’ll have to give up.” She closes her eyes and drinks.
I stare, unable to look away. Those lips, the sigh she makes. It stirs something in me.
I want to grab her by the hair and crush her mouth with my own. I want to kiss her until she bleeds.
But no, that’s the fucked-up talking.
She’s the mother of my child and nothing more.
“We should talk about how this is going to work.” I lean against the kitchen island and watch her.
She shakes her head. “I’d really rather not.”
“We’re married. You don’t think we should talk about it?”
“I know what you’re going to say.” She gives me a mocking glare like she’s pretending to be me. “Sleep in my bed, woman. Cook my dinners and clean my bathroom. Is that about it?”
“I don’t want you cooking or cleaning, but the bed part sounds right.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know where that’s coming from, but you can stop. If you think you owe me something, here I am, absolving you.” She waves a hand in the air like she’s flicking a wand in my direction. “Bippity-boppity-boo, no more guilt for you. All better?”