Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
He joined her on the bed, lifted a lock of her hair, and sniffed it. “You stink, but not enough.”
“What?” She slammed her teeth together and immediately slackened her jaw, remembering the expensive electronics in her molar. “I haven’t showered in three days.”
She’d spent hours working in the garden and running outside, letting herself get sweaty and dehydrated. A glance at the mirror earlier confirmed she looked appropriately filthy and starved, like a girl who’d been locked in Larry McGregor’s barn for a week.
“I’ll smell straight-up offensive after I put on this shirt.” She set it aside and met his eyes. “You’re evading my question.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
No, she hadn’t. She didn’t want to demand it. “It’s different, right? Better when you have sex with someone who cares about you?”
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his spread knees, and stared at her out of the corner of his eye.
As secretive as she’d been about her one-night stands, he was even more surreptitious, sneaking out at night and stumbling home in the early hours of dawn, refusing to tell her where he went. Maybe he was searching for something, too.
“You care about me.” She looked for a flicker of affirmation, any indication of softening in his stony expression, and found none. Her stomach sank. “At least, I thought you did. I mean, I’m grateful you’re not fighting me on this plan, but why aren’t you?”
“Let’s not do this, Camila.” His gaze ping-ponged between her and the floor.
“Which part?”
“All of it.” He rose, stepped away, then hesitated, changing direction mid-stride to stand over her, hands on his hips. “I won’t ruin our friendship by muddling it with sex. Nor will I let you walk into”—he waved an arm, seemingly wrestling for words—“into a place resembling Satan’s fiery asshole thinking you don’t have my support. I’m here for you, and I’ll be here when you return.”
But what if she never came back? What if she died, forgotten and alone, having never experienced the kind of love that connected two people in the most intimate way?
He crouched before her and gripped the backs of her calves, his hands warm and welcoming on her skin. “Is there a chance in hell I could talk you out of this suicide mission?”
“No.” Definitely not.
“So what’s the point in trying? It’s not like you need my approval.”
His push back would’ve shown she mattered. Maybe she wasn’t the center of his universe, but it would’ve been nice to feel…what? Commanded? Forced? Reined in by someone who loved her enough to care about her wellbeing? Maybe she just wanted to be fucked so hard she felt it emotionally, spiritually, instead of just physically.
A lump knotted in her throat, and she swallowed it down. She was letting her emotions run rampant, twisting her into a jumble of contradiction. Had he opposed her mission, it would’ve pissed her off.
She’d been chained up, beat up, kicked down, and held in the dregs of her weakest point. But she never stopped fighting, never gave up. She’d mustered what little courage remained and chose to live, to learn, to hate and kill, to do whatever it took to not just overcome, but to evolve.
He knew all that, and the intense gleam in his eyes said he was confident she’d do it again.
“I would’ve showered,” she said with a soft smile, “if you wanted to tie me up and fuck me.”
“If things were different, if I was different, I would’ve put you in the shower and never let you leave.”
Warmth spread through her limbs. “You sure you’re not gay?”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “I’m sure.” He cupped her face, his nostrils flaring with a deep breath. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
She imagined the moral corruption she would find—men who perceived women as nothing more than livestock to sell, fuck, and piss on—and the hairs on her neck lifted.
Tate pulled away and shot a longing look at the doorway.
“I’m not very good with goodbyes.” He scratched his neck, avoiding her gaze. “So…”
“Go on.” She shoved his shoulder, blinking through the achy burn in her eyes. “Get out of here.”
He didn’t look back as he escaped. The sound of his footfalls quickened down the hall and faded in the distance. When the front door slammed, the bang ricocheted through her chest, releasing a stream of silent tears.
She let them fall, promising herself they’d be her last until she saw him again. Then she dried her face and changed into his pungent black shirt.
For the next three hours, she made her farewell rounds through the sprawling, ranch-style Austin house. She shared a bedroom with Kate—one of the last slaves under Van’s reign—while the five guys took over the other four rooms. The attic was finished, but no one would sleep there.
They were millionaires, thanks to Van. They could buy seven estates, retire in luxury, and live anywhere. But they clung together in a modest suburban neighborhood not far from Liv and Josh, in a house they’d made their home.