Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I sit at the table, poking at my plate, unable to eat. My thoughts are too loud, my guilt too consuming. Cal glances at me from across the room, his sharp eyes narrowing.
“Spill it,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind.
I blink at him, startled. “What?”
“You’ve been acting off all day,” he says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His broad shoulders fill the space, his presence commanding even in his relaxed stance. “What’s going on, Layla?”
I hesitate, my throat tight. He’s watching me so closely, his piercing gaze rooting me to the spot. I know I can’t lie to him, not about this. He deserves the truth.
Taking a deep breath, I push my chair back and stand, pacing the kitchen. “I overheard something at the diner this morning,” I start, my voice shaky. “The waitress said some men were asking about a woman named Lisa.”
His expression darkens immediately, his jaw tightening. “Lisa?” he repeats, his voice low and dangerous.
I nod, my hands twisting together. “That’s… that’s my real name. I didn’t tell you because I was trying to start fresh, to leave everything behind.”
He straightens, his arms dropping to his sides. “And now they’ve found you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice breaking. “But if they have, I don’t want to put you or Carson in danger. Maybe I should—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off, his tone sharp. He steps forward, closing the distance between us. “Don’t even think about running.”
Tears blur my vision, and I shake my head. “Cal, you don’t understand. My father and my ex—they’re powerful, connected. If they’re looking for me, they won’t stop.”
His hands grip my shoulders, firm but not rough. His eyes blaze with determination, the intensity of his gaze stealing my breath. “No one is taking you away from us,” he growls. “Do you hear me? No one.”
I tremble under his touch, his words sinking into my bones. The possessiveness in his voice is electrifying, equal parts terrifying and comforting. For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to face this alone.
“But what if—”
“Stop,” he interrupts again, his grip tightening slightly. “We’ll figure this out together. You’re not running, Layla. Not now, not ever.”
His words are a vow, and the weight of them steals my breath. I search his face, finding nothing but raw, unfiltered emotion. He’s not just saying this to reassure me. He means it.
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “Why?” I whisper. “Why are you so sure about me?”
His expression softens, and he brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Because you’ve already worked your way into my life, into Carson’s life. You belong here, with us. And I’m not letting anyone take that away. Just let them try to take you from me, I will end them.”
A tear slips down my cheek, and he catches it with his thumb, his touch lingering. The silence between us is thick, charged with an unspoken understanding. I lean into him, resting my forehead against his chest, and he wraps his arms around me, holding me close.
For the first time in years, I feel safe.
Later, after Carson has gone to bed, Cal and I sit by the fire, the warmth and crackle of the flames filling the quiet space. Duke is sprawled out at our feet, snoring softly.
Cal pours us each a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight. He hands one to me, his fingers brushing mine as he does. The simple touch sends a shiver down my spine.
“To new beginnings,” he says, raising his glass.
I hesitate, then clink mine against his. “To not running,” I add softly. “I was thinking–I’d like it if you’d still call me Layla. I was thinking of getting my name changed officially. I don’t feel like that girl anymore–Lisa.”
His lips curve into a faint smile, “I can do that, baby. But I like kitten even better.”
“Me too.” I smile. We drink in comfortable silence, the tension from earlier easing into something softer, more intimate.
“Tell me about them,” he says after a while, his voice low.
I glance at him, surprised. “About who?”
“Your father. Your ex. The people you’re running from.”
I hesitate, the memories pressing against the edges of my mind. But the steady look in his eyes tells me he’s ready to hear it, ready to take on whatever I share with him.
And so, I do. I tell him about the gilded cage of my upbringing, the pressure to be perfect, to marry well, to secure alliances among my father’s business connections. I tell him about my father’s controlling nature, his willingness to sacrifice my happiness for his political ambition. And I tell him about my ex-fiancé, the charming exterior that hid a cold, calculating man who saw me as little more than an accessory.