Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
But that was it. Like once it was over, it was over. No more need to dredge up the memories.
I don’t wake all at once. It’s not one of those sudden, eyes flying open things. At first, I’m confused. There’s light coming through the windows, faint and pale, like the sun hasn’t risen yet but will soon. Right away, I reach out without looking, hoping to find Callum, but all my fingers touch are his empty half of the bed. The sheets are cool, telling me he never came up to bed, or if he did, he’s been gone for some time.
But he must have at some point. The lamp on the nightstand is off, and my book sits next to it. I can’t remember putting it there.
It’s when there’s movement out of the corner of my eye that I jump, my heart in my throat. “Who’s there?” I whisper, staring at the open bathroom door.
The sight of Callum’s familiar face lets me release the breath I was holding—but that doesn’t last long because I immediately notice the dark-red splatters of blood across one cheek. “Oh my God,” I gasp, scrambling out of bed, ready to run to him.
“No. It’s not my blood. I’m fine.” The heaviness of his voice, the fatigue in it, brings me up short. What in the hell did I miss last night? What went on while I slept?
I’m too worried to put my thoughts into words, but I don’t need to. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, taking one step to his left so his body is visible. My mouth falls open. I don’t even try to stop it because I can’t think. Not when the sight of his blood-soaked clothes is all I can focus on. It’s dried to a dark, rusty brown. Whoever was bleeding did a lot of it.
“Romero?” I finally whisper with my heart in my throat. If it was Tatum, I don’t think he would be calmly undressing in our bathroom. Then again, he might not if it was Romero, either.
He shakes his head, and when I look into his eyes, I can see now how they shine. No—they glitter. There’s a strange, almost manic sort of light in them. “It’s over. He’s gone.”
There’s only one person he could be talking about. The person who's consumed his thoughts since the night of the explosion and everything that came after. I almost don’t want to believe it. I’m afraid to, afraid this is still a dream. I never woke up; I’m still sleeping.
“Jack?” I whisper, hating the sound of his name. But I need to know this is real.
He nods. “You will never have to fear him again. You don’t have to be afraid of anything. I took care of it. You’re free, my little bird.”
It’s instinct, I guess, the way I want to run to him. He did it, and he came home safe. With my arms outstretched, I take a step, but he shuts me down with a stern expression. “You don’t want to touch me right now.” He looks down at himself and slowly pulls the stiff shirt away from his skin. It’s actually stuck there, and he winces as he detaches it from his chest and abs. What do you have to do to a person to make them bleed that much? Actually, on second thought, I don’t want to know.
“I’ll turn on the shower.” There’s so much I want to know, and at the same time, I would rather he never tell me. I can imagine it all, anyway. What he must have done to Jack to make him bleed that way. If the body had a drop of blood left in it, I’d be surprised. He’s already taken off his pants, which sit in a blood-crusted heap next to his shoes. Even they are painted red.
He killed Jack. Jack is dead. I know he did it for me and for the baby. He did it so we don’t have to be afraid anymore. I can look forward to having my baby without wondering in the back of my head how Jack might destroy everything. He’s so good at that.
Was. Past tense. It’s going to take time to get used to that.
By the time Callum finishes undressing, the water runs hot, and I’m already pulling my T-shirt over my head. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. This is what I need to do. There’s a force inside me that’s pushing me, an instinct. He went out and slayed the dragon for me, for all of us. He was willing to risk everything—even his life—to make sure no threats were hanging over us anymore. Now, it’s my turn to take care of him.
I pull him in with me, placing him directly under the showerhead. Right away, the blood starts to loosen, and by the time I’ve soaped up a sponge, the water around his feet has a red tinge. I tip his head back with one hand, letting the water run over his face, while with the other, I begin sponging his skin. I want to erase every last trace of that monster. He’ll never be anything more than an ugly memory, a scar. But scars fade. We get used to them. Eventually, we don’t even have to think about them anymore. That’s how it’s going to be. We are never going to think about him again, just like his blood will be gone by the time the shower is over, the water running down the drain. All that’s left of him in our lives will be gone forever.