Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
He might not be the one who hurt her, but he should suffer for that sin against her.
“What’s his name?” I demand.
“Devin.” Her brows are drawn together in a small, concerned frown. “What are you going to do, fly to Seattle and beat him up for being too nice?”
I force my body to relax with considerable effort. She can see me so clearly. I don’t want her to read the extent of my vicious intentions in my eyes. I’ll take care of her, but she doesn’t need to know my violent plans for the men in her past.
“How do you know he’s in Seattle?” My tone is light, as though it’s an offhand question. “Are you still in touch?”
She huffs an exasperated breath. “No. That’s where he transferred for college. I don’t know if he’s still living there. Can we please change the subject? I’d rather spend time getting to know you than talking about my ex.”
“I’ve never been in a serious relationship,” I offer in order to placate her.
I’ll have to return to this line of questioning later, when I’ve managed to get my new, surging emotions under control. I won’t risk scaring her off if I reveal the extent of my violent nature. She craves my erotic cruelty, but I suspect she’d be upset if she saw it directed at others.
“I’d rather not hear about your womanizing,” she says frostily.
Fuck.
Sometimes, I feel like a fumbling idiot when I’m around her. I never lose control of a conversation like this, but I’m saying all the wrong things.
I’d meant to reassure her that I’ve only engaged in casual flings to sate my needs. I’m skilled at BDSM because it’s provided an outlet for my darker urges, even if I’ve never been fully satisfied. I’ve kept my mask firmly on, and the women I’ve been with never knew anything about my family or my past. I didn’t put myself at risk for them. I didn’t make myself vulnerable.
I can only be this way with Abigail.
“I’ve never wanted to be with anyone before I met you,” I say earnestly. “That’s all you need to know. You make me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.”
That seems to be the right thing to say, because she softens, and her frown eases.
“Sorry, I’m being insecure.” Incredibly, she’s the one offering an apology.
That throbbing beat starts up in my chest again. I can hardly believe I’ve captured this sweet woman. She possesses her own inner darkness, but she’s nothing like me. She doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body.
Distant thunder rumbles, breaking the intense moment. I blink and tear my gaze from her x-ray eyes. Dark clouds are rolling at the horizon, the storm drawing closer to the beach.
“We should go,” I say, but she pulls her phone out of her bag.
“Just a few more minutes,” she requests, taking a picture of the encroaching storm. “This is my favorite weather.”
“Ah, yes. I noticed your preference in your paintings.”
She sets her phone down and focuses on me again, brows raised. “At the market that day?”
Fuck.
She thinks I’ve only seen her work one time: on the day I came to the market to save her from the thief.
She has no idea that I stare at scores of her paintings every day. And she doesn’t know that I’ve found her darker art that she keeps hidden in her closet.
I manage to keep my expression neutral and nod.
“Do you always paint landscapes?” I ask, pushing her to confess about her stunning, erotic work.
Her eyes cut away from mine, fixing on the horizon. “It’s what always resonated with me most. And the tourists seem to like them.”
She’s not lying, but she is evading me.
“What do you like about them?” I press.
She blows out a sigh. “This will always be home,” she admits, keeping her gaze fixed on the coming storm. “I have a complicated relationship with my family, and I sometimes feel resentment about my inability to leave them far behind. Like you did.” Her clear eyes finally focus on me again, peering straight into my soul. “You managed to go to an entirely different country. I’ve only been able to move a few cities away.”
“Why not go farther?” I’m hanging onto her every word, craving more of her intimate confessions.
“I can’t afford it,” she admits. Then she sighs. “But it’s more than that. I don’t think I’m capable of leaving. This is home,” she repeats, but the declaration is soft with something like regret.
Does she feel trapped by her affinity for this place?
“That’s why you favor the storms,” I surmise.
Her paintings are beautiful, but her most powerful landscapes provide a glimpse into her tumultuous emotions when it comes to her home.
“Yes,” she admits. “How did you manage it? Leaving home, I mean.”
Something twists in my gut, a painful twinge. I breathe through the strange pain.