Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"I would have helped you do that," he says, frowning when he sees me hanging up the last few items. He seems less tense than he did earlier, and his eyes are lighter.
The realization that he's still grieving over the family he lost breaks my heart. They obviously meant a great deal to him. So much so that he covered his home in pictures of them, keeping them with him as best he could. I desperately want to know what happened to them, but I know better than to ask. Some pain isn't for sharing. Some grief is personal.
He strides into the room, gently tugging the hangers from my hands and placing them in the closet. Once he's done, he wraps his hands around my wrists to examine my palms. The tip of his index finger runs across one of the larger stitched-together cuts. "You shouldn't be using them so often."
"They don't hurt much," I mumble, my gaze riveted to the sight of his hands around my wrists. They're rough and callused, but he holds onto me like I'm delicate, breakable. Is that how he sees me? As someone breakable? Someone so fucked up he has to handle me with kid gloves or risk damaging my already cracked pieces? "I've had worse."
His gaze snaps to meet mine, anger turning his eyes dark and bleak. He looks like a warrior staring down at me, fierce and deadly. My stomach flutters, a wave of heat kissing my skin as that look scorches me. I quickly pull away, putting distance between us.
He takes it as fear.
"I'm sorry," he grits out, his voice a low growl that does nothing to cool me down. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"It's fine," I say, though I'm not afraid of him. I've spent the last five years surrounded by men who terrified me, men who wanted me to live in fear. But I haven't felt a single moment of fear for this confusing detective since I met him. What I feel for him is far more complicated than that.
A frustrated, wordless puff of sound escapes his full lips. "I ordered food. Come eat."
"I'm not very hungry."
"You need to eat, Faith," he says, a gentle admonishment in his voice.
"Fine," I huff, rolling my eyes as my heart squeezes in a vise. "I'll eat."
He shakes his head like he can't figure me out and then ducks out of my room. I follow behind him, stomping like a petulant child. I can't seem to stop though. I don't know why I'm acting like a brat, but every time he does something to take care of me, it feels…strange. No one has ever cared before if I was hurt or if I ate or if I was afraid. He does though. I don't know how to handle it. Being a bitch is the only defense I have when he insists on knocking down my walls at every turn. How else am I supposed to survive living with him with my heart intact?
The strong, pleasant aroma of meat, spices, and veggies hits me before we're halfway down the hallway. My stomach growls loudly, betraying me. Whatever he ordered smells amazing…far better than the reheated tacos I ate last night. Why does he have to be hot and thoughtful? Why can't he be a dick like most of Nikolai's men who look like him?
He disappears at the end of the hall.
I slow my steps, taking a second to steel my fraying nerves before I round the corner into the dining room behind him. He's already at the table, pulling containers out of two brown paper bags. I hesitate on the threshold, watching him.
"I hope Chinese is okay," he says, glancing up at me.
"It's good." I clear my throat. "Though it looks like you plan to feed the entire neighborhood with all of that."
He gives me another of those half-smirks, his eyes softening. "I wasn't sure what you liked," he says, shrugging like that explains the fifteen containers of food now spread across the tabletop.
My stomach flutters again.
"Whatever we don't finish now, we'll eat later." He pulls out chopsticks and then his gaze drops to my hands. His lips pull down into a frown, his brows furrowing. "Mierda. I didn't think. Maybe Chinese wasn't the best idea."
"Chinese is good." I take another step into the room, not liking the uncertainty in his gaze. He moves with a confidence I've never quite mastered. The same reflects in his eyes most of the time, like he's used to being in charge and making tough decisions. I don't like seeing him off-balanced or second guessing himself, especially not because of me. "Maybe I should skip the chopsticks though," I suggest with a tentative, hopefully reassuring smile.
He reaches into the bag and pulls out packets of silverware, holding them out to me. He doesn't make a move in my direction or say anything, just holds them out like he's waiting for me to take the next step. The look in his eyes leaves the impression that it's important to him that I close the distance between us this time.