Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
There was a time I would’ve given anything to spend a whole night with Dante. I dreamed about falling asleep in his arms. We made plans to make that a reality. One whole night with him is the price I paid for eleven people’s lives, and the night that was supposed to happen never took place. Everything was over before Dante had made good on his promise. The world had gone up in flames, and before I knew it, my dreams and future lay shattered at my feet. And then I became a fugitive.
My chuckle is dry. My voice doesn’t sound like my own. My vocal cords are still scratchy, my throat sore from where Dante squeezed his fingers around my neck. I’m sure the red marks I saw in the mirror last night will be bruises today.
I go to the bathroom and make sure it’s vacant, although the silence already told me Dante isn’t in here. After using the facilities and brushing my teeth, I grab a set of underwear, a long-sleeved T-shirt to hide the marks on my wrists, and my jeans from the drawer where some unknown person had packed my clothes.
After locking the door, I dress in the bathroom. I pause when I pull off the T-shirt in which I’ve slept to glance over my shoulder at my back. Thick, white, shiny lines are embossed over the expanse of my shoulders and midriff. The picture isn’t pretty. The doctor who treated me told me the damage was so vast that no plastic surgery in the world could fix it. Not that I wanted to. The mess on the outside reflects the damage inside. I wanted the nauseating picture to remind me every time I look at it that only a handful of people can be trusted and that love is nothing but a weapon in the wrong hands.
No one has seen the scars except for Noah. He grew up with them. To him, they’re simply a part of me. One day, when he’s older, he may want to know what caused those marks and what they mean… where they come from.
I’m not sure if I’ll tell him.
Because the real pain isn’t the physical torment. The real pain is the humiliation and the betrayal.
The shame.
And that’s mine.
Those emotions are private. Not even Jazz has seen the damage—fresh or healed—although she knows what happened. I trust her with my secret, knowing she’ll never tell, because she came through for me when it mattered. She’s the only person left I can rely on.
Of all the people I knew, only three ever stood by me—Jazz, my mom, and our housekeeper, Emily. I’ve lost contact with Emily, assuming she’s working for Leander now, and my mom is dead. I couldn’t even go to her funeral. I’ve never been able to visit her grave. The man who’s made sure of that is somewhere in this hotel suite.
Swallowing down the bitter memories, I finish dressing, pull on a pair of socks, and brush my hair. After discovering my clothes in the drawers last night, I wasn’t surprised to have found my toiletries in the bathroom.
Whoever moved my clothes here brought all my personal belongings, which isn’t a good sign. If Dante was only going to keep us here until my front door was fixed, he would’ve simply let me use the complimentary hotel toiletries. No, he’s planning on keeping us for longer and for reasons I’m still to figure out.
Back in the room, I go through the dresser. A couple of men’s shirts, socks, and briefs are folded in the drawers. Two ties and a dark suit are zipped up in a clothes bag that hangs in the closet. An overnight suitcase sits open on a luggage rack—empty. The pants Dante wore yesterday is thrown over the back of a chair, his belt lying on top of it. I rush over and go through the pockets in the hope of finding a key card or a phone.
Nothing.
Damn.
Not that I expected Dante to be so careless, but it was worth a try.
After tying a hair scarf around my neck to hide the marks, I tiptoe through a vacant lounge to Noah’s room.
Dante’s voice comes from the other side of the lounge. “That’ll be all. You can send it up.”
The cabinet still blocks the only other door where I presume Jazz is sleeping. I try to move it, but it’s too heavy.
“Jazz?” I whisper.
No reply.
Footsteps fall on the tiles in the lounge, coming closer. I rush to Noah’s room, open the door quietly, and slip inside before clicking it shut behind me. Noah is fast asleep in the king-size bed, clutching his stuffed dinosaur, which someone left on the pillow for him, in his arms. He was so sleepy when we got here last night, I didn’t even bother to brush his teeth or put on his pajamas. I simply took off his sneakers and put him to bed in his clothes.