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 study him for a moment and then walk toward him, reaching out for one of the packets. His smile is full of pride as he hands over the packet, his hand brushing mine before he steps back and picks up a plate.
"What do you want to eat?" he asks. "I got some of everything."
"Um, maybe some fried rice, an egg roll, and chicken."
"What kind of chicken?"
"I…" I shrug helplessly, glancing down at my feet.
"What's wrong, Faith?"
"I've never actually…um…" I hesitate, my cheeks burning. "I've never got to pick before. I don't know what it's called."
He's silent for a moment. "Describe it."
I glance up at him, grateful that he doesn't ask questions. I'm not ready to tell him the humiliating truth about the way I've survived in Nikolai's care. "It has seeds on it?"
"That's sesame chicken, conejita." He pops lids off containers until he finds the rice and sesame chicken and then dishes out half the container of each onto my plate. He then adds three egg rolls.
"I can't eat all of that," I protest.
He shrugs but doesn't say anything, instead depositing my plate on the table in front of a chair. "What do you want to drink? We have water, milk, beer, orange juice, and grape soda." His brows furrow. "Maybe we should skip beer for now."
My heart warms at the way he says we like I really belong here with him. "I've never had beer."
He blinks at me. "Never?"
I shake my head. "Water is fine."
He nods, pulling my chair out for me. Once I'm seated, he crosses into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and grabbing two bottles of water. He twists the cap off one and places the bottle in front of me and then sets the other on the opposite side of the table. I wait for him to load his plate down, my eyebrows climbing.
"There's no way you can eat that much," I mutter when he looks at me.
He smirks, chuckling. "Oh, I can eat it, conejita."
I narrow my eyes on him. "Why do you call me that?"
"Does it bother you?"
"I told you it did," I grumble, though that's not strictly true. The way he says it, all soft and low, makes me feel warm all over. That's probably not a good thing.
"No," he disagrees, dropping his plate on the table beside his water and then lowering himself into his chair. "You said you weren't a rabbit. You never said you didn't like it."
"Fine, Detective Hernandez. Call me a rabbit then."
"You call me Octavio, Faith."
"No thanks, Detective Hernandez." I take a big bite of my egg roll, pretending I don't notice the way he glowers at me like I just took away his favorite toy. His stare is intense. I think he's trying to glare me into submission, but I don't give in.
He watches me like that for several long moments before he shakes his head, muttering beneath his breath in Spanish about me being stubborn as a mule. Does he even realize I know more than just a few words of Spanish? Probably not. My mother would go days on end speaking nothing but Spanish. She didn't do it to teach me. She did it because she didn't want me to understand what she was saying to me so she could punish me when I didn't respond or react quickly enough. But when pain is the result of not learning, you learn quickly.
Eventually, Octavio settles down and starts eating. The furrow between his brows grows as we eat, but he doesn't say anything for several long moments.
I finish my egg roll and fight to open the package of silverware.
Octavio reaches across the table and snags it from me, quickly ripping the plastic open and then passing the silverware back to me without a word.
"Thank you." I set the fork to the side and use the spoon to scoop up some of the rice. My hand protests, but the pain is small, not intolerable. The rice is good, the rich flavors bursting on my tongue. My stomach growls again. It's delicious.
"What do you think of Roman Gregory?" Octavio asks a few minutes later.
I blink, my spoon hovering halfway between my plate and my mouth. "What do I think of him?"
"Does he make you uncomfortable?"
I shake my head.
"Are you afraid of him?"
"No," I say slowly, suddenly leery about why he's asking.
He notices my hesitation. "With the bar shooting, my caseload is heavy right now," he explains. "When I can't be here with you, someone else will need to keep an eye on you."
"Oh."
"Roman has agreed to help keep you safe." He expels a breath. "But when neither of us can be with you, you'll be with Roman's fiancée and her guard. His name is Luke Santiago. He's a DEA agent."
My stomach churns uncomfortably.
"I trust Roman with my life," Octavio says. "He wouldn't let Luke anywhere near his fiancée if Luke couldn't be trusted. He won't hurt you."