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)
He grunts but doesn't say anything.
"I want to help."
"Did Finn ask you to do this?"
"No." I frown at him. "I offered to do it. I want to help you, but you never really ask me anything. I thought if I made a list of who they are and what I know about them, maybe all of you could use it."
He grunts again, reluctantly releasing his hold on the notebook. I quickly pull it out of reach before he can decide to take it back.
"Do…do you not want my help?" I muster up the courage to ask, clutching the notebook and pen to my chest.
"No."
I flinch, taking a step backward as soon as the word leaves his lips in a rough bark of sound.
"Mierda. I didn't mean it like that, Faith." He tips his head back in his chair, sighing heavily. He looks so frustrated and out of sorts, but I don't think it's directed at me. Whatever he had to do today is stressing him out more than usual.
"What's wrong?" I ask, moving a step closer to his desk.
"The cop I told you about the other day…I had to bring him in for questioning today."
"Oh. I'm sorry." I hesitate, not sure how much I'm allowed to ask him before quickly deciding that he'll tell me if I push too far. "Did he do what you were worried about?"
"I'm not sure yet, but it doesn't look good for him." He tips his head forward to look at me again. His eyes are clouded with confusion, his lips pulled down into a frown. "He's a good cop."
"You found evidence that he killed those men?"
Octavio hesitates for a moment and then nods. "I believe so. A motorcycle gang murdered his girlfriend's family over a territory dispute. The suspects in their deaths were found dead a few days later. I found evidence that links him to the crime scene."
"You don't want to find out he did it, do you?"
"What makes you say that?" He cocks his head to the side, studying me in avid curiosity.
"You seem upset about it," I say and then feel stupid for saying it. Maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see. "Ignore me. I don't know what I'm talking about."
"No," he says, his lips quirking up into a half-smile, "you're right. I like the guy. I don't want to find out he's guilty, but as you reminded me, I have to follow the trail and see where it leads. I don't relish doing it though. He was just a kid at the time."
"How old was he?"
"Twenty-one."
"Ouch," I mutter before I can stop myself. I'm twenty-one. Guess that solves the mystery of whether this attraction is one-sided or not. He still views me as a kid. A little piece of my heart breaks. "Thanks for the paper and pen. I'll leave you alone now."
"Fuck. Faith, wait." Octavio jumps from his seat, crossing to me before I can duck out of the room. He moves fast for someone as big as he is. His arm shoots out, blocking my exit. "How'd I piss you off?"
"You didn't." I clutch the notebook to my chest, refusing to turn around to face him.
"You're lying."
"I'm…" I break off with a huff, biting my lower lip to stop the way it trembles. "You didn't make me angry. I just realized that you still see me as a kid, that's all."
"That hurt your feelings."
I shrug.
"Look at me, Faith." When I don't heed his command, he places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn around to face him. He's so close that the fabric of his shirt brushes across my cheek. Why does he have to smell as good as he looks? It's not fair.
My tongue peeks out, sliding across my bottom lip as I stare up at him. His eyes are dark, stark hunger stamped across the sharp planes of his face.
"I've never seen you as a kid," he whispers, his deep voice rough. "Not once since I met you."
"Okay."
He reaches out, running his fingertip across my bottom lip again. "I miss you sleeping in my bed, angel. Hearing you cry out at night and knowing you don't want me to comfort you is fucking killing me."
"I…"
"I hate asking you to think about those bastardos," he says before I can even process that half-tortured confession. "I hate that you think I'm anything like Tarasova, and I hate that memories of them still torment you. That's why I don't ask you questions. When you're ready to tell me your secrets, you will."
"I don't think you're like Tarasova," I whisper, guilt washing through me in a powerful flood. "I'm sorry for what I said that morning, Octavio. I didn't mean it. I just meant…"
"You meant what you said, conejita." He gives me a sad smile and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "I don't blame you for not trusting my intentions, and you weren't wrong. I wish I could give you the freedom you so desperately crave, but I can't let you go." He leans forward, brushing his lips across my forehead. "Write your list if it makes you happy, but you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I can't give you freedom, but I can give you that much."