Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
And I hold her.
Tightly.
My chin resting on top of her head.
Calm. She’s giving herself back to me. But I’m under no illusion that she’ll stand down, and I have finally concluded that that is something I need to accept. Like she has accepted I kill. I know she can never truly go back, not with her history since she met me, and perhaps that is part of her problem. Resentment. I can’t change that. Just like I can’t change the inbuilt instincts in her that made her a formidable cop. The instincts she inherited from her mother. The instincts that help her survive being mine.
“My period came,” she breathes.
I clench my eyes closed, not knowing if I should be relieved or disappointed. Not knowing how she feels either. It’s a total fuck-up. I breathe into her hair, my arms locked around her neck, as her body jerks gently against me. I don’t know how the fuck I balance this. She wants to try for a baby. Then she wants to go all Lara Croft around Miami on a manhunt. I was unsure about the former. I’m dead set against the latter. Which makes the former a lot fucking more appealing. But her period came. Fucking hell, what am I thinking?
I’m thinking about pretty much trapping her. Fucked up.
But that’s what we are.
I reach between us with both hands and take the gloves, easing them apart to expose her face, my chin on my chest as I look down at her. “Show her to me,” I order, and she looks up, her face a mess of tears but still so fucking beautiful. I wipe under each eye as she watches me, sniveling. “I love you,” I say softly, stroking through her hair, and she nods, a few fresh tears rolling. “I love you so fucking much, Beau. Broken, not broken. Happy, sad. Pregnant, not pregnant. I will do anything for your peace. Kill anyone. We need to figure this out before it kills us.”
On a whimper, she launches herself into my arms and hugs me, sobbing into my neck. I love it when she’s vulnerable. When she needs me. I also loathe it.
“My love for you walks hand in hand with my hate for the world,” she whispers, and I clench my eyes closed, hearing her point. Hearing myself.
They are equals. Passion fueled. Your love and your hate are what makes you, Beau, and mine is what makes me. I will treasure your love, and I’ll nurture your hate. Because without your hate, you’re not the woman I love.
Jesus. Hate. It’s consuming us.
“Ollie sent Beth to the club, Beau,” I say, tense, bracing myself for her reaction.
She pulls away. “How do you know that for sure?”
“Otto got into Beth’s phone records. She and her husband split and . . .”
“She has feelings for you.”
I shrug like a chump. “Like Ollie does for you.”
“We were engaged.”
“Don’t remind me.” I sigh, wiping under her eyes. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck is going through Beth’s head, but she’s very deluded if she thinks there was ever anything more than fucking.” Painfully, I realize Ollie had way more than fucking with Beau. I honestly think he’s obsessed, but with Beau or with me? Beau, because he loves her, me because he has an axe to grind. Either or, I can never kill him. “I love you, Beau. And it hurts so bad when you pull away.” I lift her up and carry her to the horse, sitting her on it and stepping between her legs. I take her gloved hands in turn and start unfastening the ties, pulling them off. She flexes her fingers, and I lift her tank, dipping and kissing her scar. Then I devote some time to her arm, kissing down the length of scar tissue to her hand. I find the ring on her right hand and spin it slowly on her finger, the diamond sparking up at me.
Light.
I see it on my mother’s finger. I see it in the ruins of our country estate surrounded by ashes. I swallow, and Beau’s other hand is suddenly before me. She removes the ring, and my heart stops beating, waiting for her to hand it to me. She’s done. Can’t sustain this anymore, can’t fight through the darkness with me to find our light.
But she doesn’t give it to me. She puts it on the index finger of her left hand.
I shoot my eyes up to hers, my hands splaying her thighs. Her face is breathtakingly impassive. But her eyes speak to me, and she lowers her face toward me, her hands slide through my hair and grips, and she pushes her lips to mine. “Yes,” she whispers into my mouth, and the word finds its way into my chest and fuses to my heart.