Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Sleep, Delia,” he tells me, turning me over again, so secure in his arms. “Rest as long as you need. I’m not leaving you ever again. I swear.”
Part of me wants to protest, to get up and move and try to force normalcy, but my shattered mind and a few sore muscles left by those men twisting me around tells me to listen to reason.
Listen to this man.
If there was ever good reason to trust him, he’s proven it a thousandfold.
* * *
We spend the day sleeping off our trauma.
Every time I open my eyes, he’s still there, even when he’s speaking in low, harsh tones on the phone, so careful to stay quiet and so protective every time he looks at me.
I drag myself up sometime in the evening, wincing at the stinging in my shoulder—just in time to see Chris pull a cart loaded with food on silver platters into the room.
There’s salad, fruit, a big juicy burger with all the fixings, and a heap of truffle fries. Even with my stomach hounding me to eat until I’m sick, I can barely bring myself to pick at the food.
“This isn’t what you wanted,” Chris says, swallowing the last bite of burger he’s downed in record time. “I’m fucking sorry.”
I shake my head fiercely. “It’s not your fault...”
“Maybe not, but I’ll be damned if I let your vacation end like this.” I only absently notice him punching intently at his phone.
I sit limply through the rest of dinner, struggling to tear into my food and drinking my weight in water. The knock on the door is so unexpected I almost hit the ceiling.
“Stay put,” he says, running over from the small table we’re at to answer it.
“Delivery from the front desk,” someone says.
Chris mutters a “thanks” and slips the lady a tip.
Then he comes back into the room with a large box, sets it on the bed, and starts tearing the tape off.
I stare, totally baffled at what he’s ordered.
Until I see him lift out a foldable easel, a fresh canvas, and a set of pastel paints that make my mouth drop.
“Here. Something to get your mind off the bullshit,” he explains, a knowing smile curving on his lips. “It’s not as fancy as what you’ve got at home, I’m sure, and I wasn’t sure you’d be in the mood, but—”
I don’t let him finish.
I’m instantly alive again, flying out of my chair, closing the space between us as I throw my arms around him.
He reminds me of hugging a redwood tree.
This mammoth, unmovable, larger-than-life presence who somehow has the self-awareness to do this.
The kindest, most thoughtful gesture any man has ever delivered.
He clears his throat, folding his arms around me, hiding me from the cruelest world.
“If it’s too much—”
“No!” I say, craning my face up to look at him. “It’s perfect. It’s really thoughtful. It’s... I love it.”
And I do.
I just wish I didn’t have an inkling of something as scary as love flaring for the man who brought me this wonderful gift.
But how the holy hell do you ever get over a crush who kills for you?
12
Slate Grey Heart (Chris)
“Finish that up so we can eat, princess. You need your strength. You’ll feel like shit tomorrow if you don’t.”
I stare at her, hating that putting her back together isn’t as easy as I thought.
At least she’s smiling again. We’ve spent the whole evening together at the easel.
She patiently tries to explain her stuff while I give her endless jackass comments. Everything I learned about art ended with finger painting.
Bob damn Ross would’ve lost his patience with me.
But Delia never does. She just giggles at my brown smear of a horse that could be bested by a kindergartener.
She’s painting again when I wake up from a dead sleep the next morning.
With her mood lifting, I order half the room service menu, and they haul it up to us on two huge carts.
Delia nurses her lobster bisque, taking tiny bites of bread and setting them down every few seconds like she’s about to be sick.
“So...was that basically normal to you?” She looks up, her amber-brown eyes rippling. “I mean, is that what it’s like to be a SEAL and mercenary man? Killing without hesitation?”
“No room to hesitate when the stakes are that high. They could’ve killed you or dragged you off to fuck knows where.”
Her cheeks redden and she nods sadly.
“Delia, every man who’s ever been a SEAL makes a pact with the universe, God, whatever you want to call it. We don’t make the rights and wrongs in this joke of a world. We just deal justice and try to mitigate the pain. That’s what Enguard does, too—what we all had to do when the Feds contracted us to save those girls.”
I throw a glass of wine down my gullet and cut into my steak, slathered under a pile of mushrooms and garlic butter the way I like.