Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
The worst part of it is, I’m not sure he’s entirely wrong. After what happened at breakfast, my mind feels like a minefield, full of tripwires and hidden dangers. I don’t know what’s going to trigger me and cause those awful memories to take over. And Peter doesn’t even know about the mini flashback I had earlier this morning, before Nora and Rosa’s visit.
If he knew, he’d be convinced I’m a basket case.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, deciding to focus on a more innocuous topic. “How’s your side doing?”
He smiles at me. “Much better, thank you. Another few days, and I should be good as new.”
“Really? You heal remarkably fast.”
His smile fades. “I have a thick hide.”
Whereas I don’t. I’m a fragile fucking flower, falling apart at the seams if he so much as says boo. He didn’t say so, but I hear the words anyway.
I all but feel his worry for me.
Giving up on conversation, I focus on our surroundings. We’re walking past what must be the guards’ housing; I see tough-looking men with machine guns going in and out of the dorm-like building. All around us is exotic greenery, and the air is thick and humid, scented with tropical vegetation and a hint of ozone from the clouds gathering on the horizon.
Esguerra’s mansion is some distance to the right, the white, two-story building reminding me of a Civil War-era plantation. It’s surrounded by pretty landscaping and lush green lawns, as well as a few smaller buildings.
The guard towers I spotted from the plane are visible in the distance, with armed guards on top of them, and I’m sure there are dozens of other, less obvious security measures in place.
Once, seeing all these men with weapons and knowing that I’m on a ruthless criminal’s compound would’ve unnerved me, to say the least. But now it makes me feel safe.
Now the enemy are the people most citizens count on for protection: the law enforcement authorities.
Well, and Henderson—who’s using said authorities as his tool of vengeance.
When we get back to the house, Peter prepares our lunch, and we eat—this time, without any meltdowns on my part. He’s still quiet during the meal, though, his gaze trained on me with undisguised worry.
“Stop,” I groan when I can’t take it anymore. “Please, stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to freak out, I promise.”
“You can’t promise that because the flashbacks aren’t something you can control, ptichka,” he says quietly. “And the more you try, the worse they may get. Which is why I’m going to talk to Esguerra about getting a therapist here.”
“What? Oh, come on. This can wait until—”
“No, it can’t.” His face is set in implacable lines. “Not with what happened this morning.”
“Peter, please. Nothing really happened. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. There’s no need to embarrass me in front of Esguerra by asking him to do that. Besides, won’t it mean you’ll owe him yet another favor? Once you’ve dealt with Henderson, we can talk about therapy and all that. Until then—”
“Until then, you’ll see whoever we can bring here.”
Ugh. I shove my empty plate away and get up. It’s impossible to sway Peter when he sets his mind on something. I both love and hate that about him—and in this instance, it’s definitely the latter.
Why can’t he understand that I’m just not ready to deal with the emotional fallout of what happened? That I’d rather risk the occasional flashback than delve into the toxic pool of guilt and horror sloshing around in my mind?
If I could simply erase those memories, I would. Barring that, I just don’t want to think about them.
“Ptichka…” He catches my wrist as I’m about to leave the kitchen. His touch burns through me, his fingers binding me like a shackle. “Listen to me, my love. You’re hurt, injured—as surely as if you’d caught a bullet. Would you let my wounds fester? Or would you do your best to bring about their healing?”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” His gray eyes are soft as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with his free hand. “How is it different?”
Because it is, I want to shout. Because it doesn’t matter what I do, or how many therapists I talk to.
Nothing will bring my parents back.
This isn’t a bullet wound that will heal with care.
Yet as I stare up at Peter, it occurs to me that I could argue with him for weeks, and it wouldn’t change a thing. I can’t convince him that I’m fine.
Not with words, at least.
Slowly and deliberately, I lick my lips. Predictably, his gaze falls to my mouth, and his grip on my wrist tightens as I repeat the action, then follow it up with my teeth sinking seductively into my bottom lip.