Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
I use the peach-scented bottles to wash and shampoo her hair, my rough hands working carefully through the strands, making them lather and then cream and then clean again.
When she’s dry, I tuck her into bed with its pale pink sheets and white lace coverlet, with the cream-colored throw pillow with a brown violin embroidered on it. God, she looks so vulnerable in that bed. So vulnerable and impossibly strong. The urge to hold her runs through me, a physical sensation that makes me tremble.
I turn to leave her, forcing myself to let her rest. She deserves that much.
“Don’t go,” she whispers.
The bed is twin-size, which isn’t enough for the both of us. And it highlights how young she is, how wrong I was to ever let her climb into my king-size bed down the hall.
Shivers run through her, and I climb in behind her, pulling her close into the fortress of my body. My eyes are wide. Sleep will be impossible tonight. Tomorrow. Maybe ever. All I can do is watch over her. No one will touch her.
She drifts into a restless slumber, her body warm but still shivering.
SAMANTHA
Liam wakes me up just before midnight, nudging me gently out of the hazy, dark sinkhole of dreams. It takes me a moment to remember that the crash wasn’t only in my imagination. New twinges wake up throughout my body as I move to stand, and I can’t hide a wince.
“Dr. Foster’s downstairs,” he says, a knowing sympathy in his eyes. “And the police want to ask some questions. I’ve given them fifteen minutes. They know you need to sleep.”
I manage a wry smile. “If a question gets too personal, you’ll step in?”
He raises an eyebrow, bemused by my mood. I’m bemused, too. It’s a strange thing to realize I miss his overprotective tendencies. Maybe that’s how I truly know I’ve grown up—that I can long for the relative safety of my childhood with Liam North.
But the detectives are courteous and professional. Unlike the reporter, they haven’t been digging into my personal background before they show up. They aren’t aware there’s any connection between my father and what happened tonight. Did the driver interact with you before he rammed from behind? Do you know why he was chasing you?
They show me a photo of him, leaning back in the driver’s seat, a neat hole in the center of his forehead. I shiver, and Liam rubs slow circles on my back. Have you seen him before?
No, no, and no.
The doctor looks me over and declares me healthy—some bruising, he says, offering a prescription that is guaranteed to numb the pain.
“No,” I say because I think the nightmares may be worse.
Liam accepts the bottle with a grim nod, keeping it safe in case I need it.
Then he takes me back upstairs and tucks me into bed. “What about Laney?” I ask, pain and adrenaline making me jittery. “What about Cody’s truck? His dad—”
“I know,” Liam says, his green eyes fathomless. “I’ll take care of them.”
“You said he’s not your business.”
“I was wrong, Samantha.”
I clasp his wrist in a wordless plea, feeling the interplay of tendon and muscle, a silent string instrument in the form of a man.
He climbs into the bed behind me, his warmth an immediate comfort.
“You don’t have to stay.” I close my hand around his arm, pressing my fingers along the strings as if it were the neck of a violin—G4, D4, A4, E5.
He doesn’t move, but I feel his gentle amusement ripple the air. “Let me,” he murmurs. “After seeing the truck go off the road, I’m definitely going to have nightmares.”
And I sink back into the murky sleep, the one with my father shouting, pleading, cursing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In addition to being a composer and talented violinist, Vivaldi was ordained by the Catholic Church. He was given the nickname The Red Priest in reference to his hair color.
LIAM
In my dream there are soft hands exploring me.
These are the hands of a violinist, incredibly swift and strong and sure. I suck in a breath when they find a decades-old cut on my side. It feels like a lance, the gentle fingertip tracing the scar. They move lower, lower, lower. The backs of delicate knuckles brush against stiff denim, a butterfly beating its wings against a boulder—and breaking it apart.
I roll the warm weight of her beneath me, determined to extract payment. My dick throbs with years of unspent desire. My hands aren’t nearly so soft. I’m going to rip her silk-flutter skin the way I’m grabbing her, holding her, using her, but I can’t make myself stop.
It’s a dream; I don’t have to stop.
I press my face into her hair, breathing in the sun-drenched strands. Her skin feels impossibly smooth against my cheek, beneath my lips. I lick her to see if she tastes as sweet. Like the velvet skin of a peach, holding such treasure inside.