Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
That fucking letter shook her up, exactly as it was meant to do. I can see it in her eyes. She's scared, more so for the people around her, I think, than she is for herself. This bastard has already shot her guitarist and caused a stampede at her show, injuring two dozen of her fans. What else is he capable of doing? Who else might he hurt to get to her? To unravel her and make her question the choices she's made?
I want to find him and rip him limb from fucking limb for putting her through this. A man of God doesn't threaten his flock. He doesn't terrorize or torment them. A man of God doesn't appoint himself as judge, jury, and executioner. She's done nothing to deserve condemnation.
By the time I make it back inside, Winter is on the couch, plucking out a melancholy tune on her guitar. Her cat is curled up on the chaise across from her, sleeping. I think that's the only thing the cat does…sleep and eat. Actually, I take that back. She blows up the litter box too. Worse than Keller used to blow up the bathrooms after eating chili. I need a Hazmat suit just to scoop the damn box.
"Working on a new song?" I ask, leaning back against the wall to watch her.
"Finishing one," she says, reaching for the pen and notepad beside her. She jots something in it, frowns, scratches it out, and then jots something else. After a moment, she plucks a few more strings, humming quietly.
"Sing it for me, songbird."
She looks up at me.
"I want to hear it."
A pretty blush steals across her face. "I haven't even practiced it yet."
"I don't care."
She takes a deep breath and then nods, adjusting her guitar on her lap. She strums a few chords, humming quietly, and then she starts to sing.
Drank too much again last night.
Watched it all just pass me by
Doing anything and everything just to get you off my mind.
I don't think it's working now.
Because I still can't take a breath.
I'm going down.
Knees on the concrete
Head in my hands.
Can you hear me?
I'm going down.
Thought I could outlast you.
That I could watch you walk away.
I was crazy for thinking it.
Crazy for believing I didn't need you to survive.
So I drank too much again last night
Trying to keep you off my mind.
But I'm going down.
Knees on the concrete
Head in my hands.
Can you hear me?
I'm going down.
I need you, baby.
Please.
I need you.
Her voice fades on the last line. She strums another chord and then the guitar falls silent. I stare at her for a long moment, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a war drum. My dick pressed so firmly against my zipper I feel the teeth of it digging into my shaft.
"When did you start writing it?" I ask.
"When I realized I was falling in love with you," she whispers, lifting her gaze to mine. There's so much vulnerability in her eyes, so much honesty it wrecks me. "I thought if I pretended it wasn't happening, I could make it stop. But then I heard you crying out in your sleep and realized that I was going down no matter what." She swallows hard. "I don't regret it, Ronan."
"Fuck," I growl, stomping across the room toward her with my heart in my throat. I take her guitar from her, propping it carefully against the couch before I pull her into my arms. "I don't regret it either, songbird. Loving you is the best goddamn thing that's ever happened to me."
"Then love me right now," she pleads. "Make me forget all about that letter and how cold I feel. Bring me back to life, Ronan. Please."
"You don't even have to ask," I whisper, scooping her up into my arms to carry her to our bedroom. "You never have to ask me to love you. The answer is always yes."
Chapter Nine
Winter
Ronan carries me into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us to shut out the world. I expect him to put me down, but he doesn't. He carries me straight to the bed, laying me out in the center of it. I stare up at him, awed at how strong he is. At how strong he makes me feel.
Reading that letter made me feel so small and powerless, as if pieces of my identity and soul were being slowly chipped away. But the way he looks at me molds them back into place, reshaping me into something stronger, more beautiful. I'm not the little girl who grew up in a twisted church with parents who are ashamed of her. I'm not a country musician who has to be on all the time and is stretched thin. I'm just Winter, and that's enough.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispers, leaning down to press a reverent kiss to my lips. "Every time I look at you, I wonder how I got so fucking lucky."