Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I don’t respond. The proximity of his body is overwhelming my nervous system. His scent, the same cedar and leather smell that clings to the cotton shirt I’m wearing, mixed with something clean, like soap makes me dizzy. I try to avert my gaze but it’s hard when he’s right there. This close, I can see the individual whiskers of stubble along his jaw, and the way his dark lashes frame those cold blue eyes. He’s beautiful. Or I guess he would be beautiful if he weren’t such a monster.
“I’m going to clean your wrist,” he says, still holding it carefully. “And put some antibiotic ointment on it. Are you going to let me do it or are you going to fight me?”
I don’t understand why he’s asking for my permission. He’s going to do it whether I agree or not. Stupidly, my brain finds the smallest bit of comfort in the fact that he’s asking me, like my permission matters to him, which makes no sense, but then again. None of this makes much sense to me.
“Just do it,” I whisper.
He releases my wrist slowly, straightening with deliberate ease.
When he turns, my blood cools at the sight of the bag I hadn’t noticed he brought with him. I keep my eyes locked on him out of caution while he unzips it and pulls out a first-aid kit—a nice one, not the cheap kind from the drugstore. Returning to my side, he sets it on the bed, opens it, and pulls out antiseptic wipes and ointment.
“Warning you now, this is going to sting,” he announces, his gaze burning into mine.
I can only nod. The feel of his warm breath fanning against my skin makes it increasingly difficult to remember that he’s a killer. A moment later, he cleans the raw wound, and I’m unable to stop myself from flinching. Fire pricks at my skin, and I grit my teeth against the pain to stop from crying out.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I’ve shown enough weakness.
Despite my flinching, his touch remains gentle, his movements sure. It makes me wonder how many times he’s done this? Does he hurt people and patch them up often?
Get a grip, Saint.
I have no reason to care what he does or doesn’t do. He’s a murderer, and the second I forget that little fact is the second I’m dead.
After wrapping my wrist with bandaging tape, he packs up the first-aid kit. The room is silent, and quiet only heightens my anxiety.
What happens now?
I’m tempted to ask again, but at the same time, I don’t want to know.
Turning his back to me, he moves toward the small kitchen area. I watch him warily, my newly bandaged wrist resting in my lap. Back at the bag, he pulls more items out—bread, sandwich meat, cheese, and a few more water bottles.
I’m thrilled to see real food, not just protein bars. Without missing a beat, he assembles a sandwich, and brings it over, setting it beside me on the bed.
“Eat.” He’s not asking, he’s demanding and I don’t like it.
I stare at the sandwich, my stomach simultaneously churning and growling. “I’m not hungry.”
“Are you really going to continue with this charade? You said you didn’t care that you were bleeding and now your wrist is bandaged. Now you’re telling me you aren’t hungry when I can clearly hear your stomach growling. Stop being difficult. We both know this can only end one of two ways. So are you going to eat on your own, or am I going to have to shove the food down your throat?”
“I’m not being difficult. I said I’m not hungry.”
“Saint!” The way he says my name, like a father scolding his child, promises punishment if I push further.
I’m tempted to push him further, but there’s a reminder at the back of my mind telling me to tread carefully. Reluctantly, I reach for the sandwich with my free hand, hating myself for giving in so easily. The truth is I’m starving, and even if I don’t want him to know I know that being stubborn won’t help me if I need the strength later.
Taking a bite of the sandwich, I force myself to chew and swallow. It tastes like sawdust in my dry mouth, but it’s better than starving, right?
Calder watches me for a moment, and when he seems satisfied he turns and moves to the small table. He pulls out a chair and sits down heavily, like the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I finish half the sandwich before my stomach rebels against eating another bite, and I set it aside.
Calder stares straight ahead, clearly lost in thought.
“There, I ate. Now what?” I ask quietly.
After a moment, his gaze flicks back to me. “I don’t know.”