Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 153544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
“Oh, because you’re the best at it?” Fresh tears cascade down her cheeks, and I wish I could take them away, but if I touch her, she’ll hit my hand or push me, and I’ll turn into an unhinged animal.
So I tap my finger against my thigh, summoning patience I don’t have. “So what if I’m the best at it? That should be a compliment.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Her voice raises. “You’re not even offering excuses for what you said. Instead, you’re pulling a classic you move by projecting the blame onto someone else. That someone is now dead and reached that point thanks to you.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“You might as well have had!” Her whole body shakes with the force of her words. “Do you not see how much your words could be cutting to someone in a depressive, suicidal state?”
“He was neither depressive nor suicidal. That slimy fuck might have fooled you, but he’d never be able to fool me.”
Her lips tremble. “You’ll never change, will you? Instead of admitting it, you’re deflecting the blame.”
“Instead of being rational, you’re being fucking emotional, Glyndon.”
“Sorry for not being a robot like you!”
“Watch it,” I grit out. “It might not look like it but I’m pissed the fuck off right now, and I’m holding myself back. Barely. So quit pushing me. I mean it.”
Her shoulders hunch as her chin quivers and her hands ball into fists. “I want to go home. To London.”
“How were you planning to do that? By running all the way? You didn’t even take your fucking passport or bag.”
She purses her lips. “I can call Grandpa.”
“Before or after someone attacks you in the middle of the night? You don’t even know the States or New York. What, and I can’t stress this enough, the fuck is going on in your head?”
“I want to get away from you.” The deadpan in her voice scratches on my sanity. “Just leave me alone.”
“No can do. Get in the car.”
“No.”
“You can either go nicely or not so nicely.”
“I don’t want to see your face right now, Killian,” she murmurs and hits her chest. “It hurts. Right here. And if you keep forcing me, I’ll throw myself from the car.”
The tapping of my fingers turns up in intensity, but I stop myself from throwing her over my shoulder.
I told her I’d never let her have those suicidal thoughts again, but in this instant, I’m triggering them.
And while this could be the anger talking, I don’t want to see her act on those emotions.
Not now. Not ever.
“Get in the car,” I repeat with enough tension to detonate a country.
“I said—”
“I know what you fucking said. I’ll drive you to the private jet and instruct the pilot to take you back to London.”
“You…really will let me go back alone?”
“I don’t want to, but I will.”
Because for the first time, I hate the way she’s looking at me. It’s not fear nor is it annoyance or defiance.
It’s disgust mixed with anger.
And I’m not ready to find out if she’ll act on her threat.
I’ll just give her some time to cool down before following after.
She eyes me suspiciously, but she climbs into the car.
During the whole ride, she crosses her arms and stares through the window, refusing to say a word.
I don’t provoke her either, letting her have all the space she needs.
Once she’s done with her tantrum, she’ll pay back in full.
We wait an hour until the jet and the crew are ready. During the whole time, she puts earbuds in her ears and ignores my existence.
I come close to murder so many times in the span of one hour, which is more than at any other time in my life.
Glyndon doesn’t look at me as she ascends the plane, seeming to have forgotten about her fear of flights.
After I make sure the crew would protect her with their lives, I begrudgingly descend and watch as the plane takes her away.
I slam my fist against the side of the car.
That does nothing to expel the rage seeping through my veins.
Time to purge it using the fucker who sent her that video.
36
ASHER
Something’s not right.
I’m not sure what or why, but I’m certain of the red flags when my wife wraps her arm around me, her breathing erratic and her body tense.
Her fingers absentmindedly stroke my chest, but she’s not falling asleep. Or talking.
She’s just caught in a trance of her own making. A phase where I couldn’t find her even if I tried.
This brings back horrible memories from when she used to give me the cold shoulder, distance herself from me and leave me battling violent tendencies where all I wanted was to punch anything that moved in her vicinity.
But we’re over that phase. We’ve been over it for more than twenty-six years.
After we officially got together, there were times when Reina was upset with me about small details and chose to use her irritating habit of creating distance between us.