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's called to check in every day since, but he hasn't been back until today. He says his job kept him away, but I don't think that's the only reason he's avoided coming here the last few days. Not that he'll ever tell me why he runs so hot and cold. Not that I should even care.
I've known him for a week, and he's already the most confusing man I've ever met.
Not to mention the hottest. He's too handsome for his own good, and he looks at me like I'm a puzzle and he's trying to put the pieces together. It's unnerving. I don't want him trying to figure me out because I'm pretty sure he sees more than most people do. The way he looks at me leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way I never was with Nikolai and his men.
With them, I knew where I stood and what was expected of me. I cooked, cleaned, did what they told me to do, and kept my mouth shut. I didn't ask questions or get to have opinions. I learned quickly that the best way to avoid pain was to be invisible. I was good at not drawing attention to myself. Not even Ivan Sedov, who made my life a living hell, ever focused on me like Detective Hernandez does. It's almost like he's stripping me down to my core, exposing all the painful things inside me that I'd rather not acknowledge even exist.
He sees them though.
He sees me.
I wish he didn't.
"You need more than scrubs to wear, angel," he tries again, his rumbling growl setting off little fires inside my skin. Why does he have to sound as hot as he looks? It isn't fair.
"I'm not a charity case, Detective Hernandez," I tell him, hating how strained my voice sounds and how my cheeks heat as I say the words.
He eyes me for a moment like my words surprise him, and then he shakes his head. "Faith, you're in protective custody. So long as you're in our care, it's our responsibility to make sure you have what you need, including suitable clothing."
"You mean the ATF's care," I correct. Agent Gunner explained the rules to me. I'm in the care of the ATF, and Detective Hernandez doesn't work for the ATF. He works for the LAPD. But I know without even asking that the ATF didn't pay for the clothes in all those bags. He did. I just don't understand why. "I'm their responsibility, not yours."
I don't much like that either, but it's easier to feel like I owe something to the government than it is to feel like I owe something to the powerful man standing in front of me.
"Does it matter?" he asks.
I nod emphatically.
"Fine. I'll bill the ATF for the clothes then," he mutters, throwing his hands up in surrender.
"Promise?"
He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling as if asking God to grant him patience. "Yes," he grits out, shaking his head. His left eye twitches. I think I'm stressing him out. That probably shouldn't make me feel better, but it does. "I promise I'll bill them if it makes you happy."
"Thank you."
He tips his head down to look at me, suspicion flickering through his sepia eyes. I hold his gaze as innocently as possible, which makes him shake his head and chuckle. Even his laugh is hot.
His expression softens incrementally. "You're very stubborn."
I ignore him because I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean that as a compliment even though he makes it sound like one. "You really didn't have to come all the way out here to bring me clothes," I say instead.
"I was in the area," he lies.
He wasn't in the area. Literally no one just happens to be in this area for no reason. My safe house is a tiny two bedroom that's as close as you can get to the middle of nowhere while still being inside Los Angeles County. The furniture is threadbare, but there are no neighbors, minimal traffic, and the security system is pretty good.
"Are you settling in okay?" he asks.
"Fine," I lie, avoiding his gaze. The house is safe and secure, but the truth is that I hate it here. It's too quiet. Nikolai's men are loud and disruptive, his territory full of sounds. Every night, I fell asleep to the sounds of Nikolai and his men partying with whatever women they brought home for the night. I hated the incessant moaning and cursing as much as I hated the screams and pleas, but I think I hate the silence here even more.
There's nothing to distract me from memories.
I've barely slept since I arrived. Every time I doze off, nightmares of the shooting plague me. It feels like I'm right back there, listening to gunfire ring out while people scream for help.