Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
“Let go,” he growls.
“Y-you motherfucking—”
“Now,” he growls again, cutting off the sheriff’s words.
Sheriff Cooper’s chest is shaking. “Are you off y-your—”
I notice his knuckles going pale from the force with which he’s choking him. “Hands off her now or I’ll kill you right here for touching my wife.”
“She ain’t…” the sheriff squeaks, trying to dislodge his hand. “Y-your wife… y-yet.”
In response, he increases the pressure even more. Then, in the same low tone, “Papers.”
The sheriff’s eyes go even bigger, and he sputters, “Y-you… c-can’t—”
“Won’t say it again.”
Still, the sheriff resists. But only for a few seconds before he reaches his hand back, scrambling to search for the papers on the desk. He clutches them in his shaking hand and offers them to the man he called Arsen. Without taking his hand off the sheriff’s throat, he commands, “Pen.”
The sheriff lets the papers go, and they fall limply onto the desk. He searches frantically for the pen. A few moments later, he has it in his hand and holds it out as well. Without taking his hand off Sheriff Cooper’s neck, he takes the pen before flicking his eyes down to the papers.
And then I watch him sign his name in clear, concise letters.
In a handwriting so familiar that I see it in my dreams. He has a habit of pressing his writing instrument so firmly onto the page that I can feel the indentations of the letters with my fingers. In weaker moments, I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night and stroked the pages with my eyes closed, trying to make out the words he wrote me. I know if I tried, I could feel them now too.
Like braille.
No, knowing him, it’s a brand on that paper, his name.
Arsenal Grayson.
Arsen, like the sheriff called him. Like setting fire to the timber on purpose.
When he’s done branding his name, he lifts his eyes to me. They’re still dark and fiery, and I know I should look away, but I can’t. It’s like watching a train wreck. It’s like being in a train wreck.
I hear the rustle of papers on the desk. Then, “Your turn.”
Tell him. Fucking tell him. Tell him you’re not who he thinks you are.
But something else comes out entirely. “H-He’s not… He can’t breathe.”
“Sign the papers,” he says, ignoring me.
“You’re going to k-kill him.”
“Sign the fuckin’ papers.”
“You have to let him go.”
His eyes bore into mine as he decrees, “I will. When you sign the papers.”
“What?”
“You want him to live,” he says, his jaw pulsing, and in the periphery, I notice and hear the sheriff squeaking. “You sign on the dotted line.”
I jerk my eyes away from him and take in the sheriff. He’s all red now, the veins standing on his temples, his eyes bloody. He’s still trying to dislodge Arsen’s hand, and for a second all I can think is that it feels so weird calling him that. Arsen instead of Bo, the name I’ve called him in my head for six months.
Quickly, I pull myself together and turn to him. “You can’t do that. You can’t—”
“I’m not the one doin’ it,” he tells me, his features somehow both aloof and intense.
The sheriff makes a choking sound and I flinch. “This is insane. This is not—”
“Sign the papers.”
I shake my head, pleading, “Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”
“Sign…” he begins slowly, “the papers, or he dies, Peyton.”
I cringe.
I open my mouth to tell him the truth. I’m not the one he wants. But for some reason, I can’t say it. I can’t say the words. I don’t know why. They could be my out. They could free me. But my mouth stays shut, and then the moment’s gone.
Keeping his gaze locked with mine, he leans closer. “If you don’t sign your name in ink, I’ll make you sign it in his blood. You know what I did, don’t you? You know who I am, what I’m capable of. So if you don’t want me to scratch the attempted from the attempted murder, you pick up that pen and write your name on the dotted line. Because either way, you’re leavin’ here as my wife.”
His wife.
I leave my body then and watch myself from above. I watch myself reach for the pen, my fingers trembling. I watch myself sign my name on the dotted line like he asked me to. It’s not my best handwriting. In fact, it looks nothing like my usual handwriting. My letters appear shaky and haphazard, unreadable really, but I don’t think it matters. All that matters is that I did it.
I did what he told me to do, and now I’m his wife.
I slam back into my body, but before I can gather my senses, he turns back to the sheriff. He whips his knife out of his pocket and plunges it into the man’s arm.