Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Zara got home from work over an hour ago, and I waited in the shadows until I guessed she was asleep. It took less than thirty minutes from the time she opened her front door until her lights went out, but I still waited another half an hour.
I want to crawl up her body, run my tongue along every inch of skin from her ankles to the top of her fucking head. I've ached for days with the need to touch her, and those pains have made me fight harder and harder with each second that has ticked by because needing anything from anyone is a weakness.
I already have enough of those simply by being human.
But I haven't been strong enough to resist her, to resist watching her from the shadows as she leaves the bar, to following her home every night. Hell, I leased a fucking truck because I know my bike makes too much noise.
The first night I told myself I was working. The second night I couldn't even lie to myself.
Ace was right. Zara-fucking-Hailey is going to be a problem. She was already a problem, and that's why I'm here tonight, to prove to myself that I can touch her and still walk away when it's over.
Fuck staying away completely. That shit is impossible.
Silently, I make my way to her bedroom, anticipating the sight of her sleeping peacefully in her bed only to be met with the glint of moonlight off the barrel of a fucking gun.
I wonder if she can see the smile on my face. I never thought anyone could ever surprise me, but here we are.
"Zara," I say, awe in my tone.
I checked her house before she came home that night, and I was in here again last night while she was finishing her shift at the bar. There's never once been a hint that she had a fucking gun.
"I'd feel a little more comfortable if you lowered that thing," I tell her, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed over my chest. She could do some real damage with the weapon, and since I don't know exactly where her head is, I shelter my heart the best I can without looking like I'm scared.
She's near, so even with the gun pointed right at me, that sense of calm I needed is already washing over me.
"Why?" she snaps. "It's not like it would be the first time you were shot."
She traced every scar on my torso that she had access to the other night, and although I could see the questions in her eyes, she never once opened her mouth to ask me about them. Bringing them up now meant she wanted to know rather than deciding I wasn't worth the wasted breath like I'd assumed then.
"True," I agree. "But every one of them sucked, and I'd rather bury myself inside of you than deal with another bullet wound."
"Are you a drug dealer?"
"No."
"A criminal of any kind?"
I hesitate with my answer on this one because, honestly, is it ever legal to slice people to pieces in order to get information?
I push off the doorframe and take a step closer to her, the sound of the gun cocking making me freeze in place with my hands near my ears in mock surrender.
"I'm not a criminal," I answer, believing my words.
What I do is for good. I don't go around and hurt innocent people. If anything, I get an ounce of retribution for the evils the men I do hurt have caused in the world.
I'm not a vigilante. I don't go around seeking evil-doers just so I can hurt them. What I've done has always, well, mostly always, since the Marine Corps, been sanctioned and expected as a job duty.
It isn't until she lowers the weapon that I notice the shine of tears on her cheeks.
I rush to her the second the gun is sitting on the bed near her hip.
"What the fuck happened?" I growl as I grip her shoulders.
It's an effort to keep her at arm's length as I fight the urge to pull her to my chest and tell her everything will be okay. I have no business making this woman any sort of promise, especially considering this might very easily be the last time I see her.
"Nothing," she lies as she lifts the back of her hand to wipe away the tears from her face.
"Don't lie to me," I growl.
"S-something just freaked me out at work today," she confesses.
This could be it. I could finally get the information that I need from her, but I struggle with making sure she's okay and digging for more answers.
"With that asshole Jersey?" I hedge.
She shakes her head. "It isn't important."
"It's important enough that you're sitting in bed with a gun pointed in my direction."
In the moonlight, I see her eyes narrow. "You break into my house in the middle of the night and then try to gaslight me into believing it's my fault?"