Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
I bolt out of the car and take the front steps of her house two at a time.
Butterfly, fuck.
Just hold on.
I barely refrain from punching a hole through her door.
Mallory said there was some weirdo doing just that, so I restrain myself and knock, raising my voice to call out.
“Ophelia? It’s Grant. Open up! There’s no one out here.”
There’s a long moment, a faint sound of footsteps shuffling from inside. Then the door cracks open.
She gives me a mutinous look, her green eyes crackling.
“Are you saying I imagined it? You—”
“Fuck no. God, woman, put your claws away for five minutes. I was telling you it’s safe to open up.”
That’s when it registers.
The way she’s so flustered, skin red like she’s just been in a scrap.
The bruises on her arms.
Fresh, reddish-purple, and still forming in the shape of someone’s grubby goddamned fingers. The points where those fingers dug in the darkest.
I’ve seen it plenty of times on domestic calls.
Instant rage storms through me and the world recedes into a humming white haze.
“Motherfucker,” I clip, reaching for her. “Who did this? Who hurt you?”
Ophelia’s eyes widen.
She stares at me, then glances away, twisting to look down at her upper arms.
“Oh, I hardly noticed. Honestly, it looks worse than it really is...”
Bull.
I don’t know a damn thing yet except for the fact that the man who grabbed her is dead.
I’m not thinking when I drop down on one knee in front of her right there on the porch while she stands in the doorway.
“Grant? What are you doing?”
“Let me look. I need to see the damage,” I growl, brushing my fingers lightly over the soft skin of her forearm. The light shines behind her head, turning her honey hair into a gold halo.
“S-sure,” she relents, letting me do my thing.
As worked up and furious as I am, touching Ophelia is a special kind of torture.
I keep it careful, keep it light, gently grasping her forearm and turning it so I can get a good look at the bruises.
“He grabbed you pretty hard, but he didn’t break the skin. He hurt you anywhere else?”
“My neck feels a little sore,” she answers, rubbing the back of it. There’s something odd in her voice. “He shook me pretty rough, too. Snapped my head around a bit.”
Okay, shit.
Now, he’s a dead man and dismembered.
“He’ll be lucky I don’t hang him from the town square statue by his ballsack when I find him,” I growl, standing and giving her a gentle nudge. “Let’s have a look around and you can tell me what happened.”
She gives me another weird look and takes a hesitant step backward into the house.
I follow, taking a quick glance around.
All my police instincts fire, quick and assessing, searching for details she might’ve missed in the initial panic.
The old house hasn’t changed much from what I remember, all lush oversized furniture that doesn’t quite match, clearly chosen more for its marshmallow comfort than for showroom style.
“You guys still keep the first aid kit in the bathroom?” I ask.
“...y-yeah.”
Fuck me, I’ve never seen her so shaken. I can’t help touching her shoulder.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re gonna be fine, Ophelia. He’s not hurting you again. It’s okay now.”
“Is it?” she echoes faintly, her pretty green eyes round marbles as she stares at me.
“The hell wouldn’t it be?”
“Um, you’re actually talking, for one. I think the world’s about to end.”
I blink.
That’s when I realize she’s teasing me.
Before I know what’s happening, I grin. If she’s still joking, she’ll be one hundred percent fine.
“Brat,” I spit, lightly flicking my fingers against the center of her forehead. “Sit down and I’ll get you the kit.”
She flashes me a smirk and drops herself onto the couch, giving me a glimpse of full hips and jeans that cup her ass like they’re trying to make love to it.
I pull myself away and head down the hall to the first-floor bathroom, trying not to let that vision stick.
Sure enough, there’s a box in the little cabinet above the toilet, an old steel fishing tackle box that belonged to Angela Sanderson’s husband before he died not too long after Ethan was born.
This box came out every time we banged ourselves up as kids, running through the woods like heathens and falling out of trees at least twice a week.
We’d come tumbling in from our adventures, after we dared each other to do stupid shit that risked our necks. It’s a minor miracle nobody got more than a broken ankle over the years.
You name it, we got ourselves scratched up doing it, only to come dragging back before dark so Mrs. Sanderson could patch us up like a good medic and send me home to my ma covered in Bactine and Band-Aids.
The memory makes me smile as I hold the box—and I sober as it hits me.