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)
He brushes strands of hair back from my face, studying me intently in the dim light. I can't read his expression well, but it's soft. "You make me want to keep you," he murmurs. "But you weren't made for a cage."
"Who says you have to keep me in one?" I whisper back.
"I talked to the lead detective on your case," Ronan says, setting a heaping plate of bacon and eggs in front of me the next morning. How he expects me to eat it all, I don't know. But it looks delicious.
"What did he say?"
"He had a lot to say," he says, grabbing his own plate from the kitchen before crossing back to the table. He sets it across from me, looks up at me, and then scowls and circles around to my side of the table. He drops his plate in front of the chair beside me, pulls it out, and takes a seat, but not before moving it as close to mine as possible.
I shovel a bite of scrambled egg into my mouth to hide a smile.
We fell asleep cuddling last night. He didn't have nightmares again. At least none that woke him up or made him restless. He seemed to sleep peacefully. We didn't wake up until nearly nine this morning. He seemed shocked to have slept so long.
We didn't talk about what happened between us last night. But he kissed me before he crawled from the bed and dragged himself down to his home gym. I occupied myself with writing a new song or trying to write one. It feels more personal than anything I've ever written before now, more real. I'm still fine-tuning it.
"The most important thing was that he believes whoever is responsible is someone you're familiar with," he says.
I stop chewing to look at him. "Someone I know?"
He nods, his expression grim. "They've been going through the threatening fan mail you've gotten. There are a few letters that raised some red flags. Anderson thinks they're from the same guy."
I set my fork back down on my plate, suddenly far less hungry than I was two seconds ago. "Why does he think they're from the same guy?"
"Scripture." He takes a swallow of coffee. "Several of the letters reference scripture. I haven't seen them, but he said most of them are written in a threatening context. Do you know what he's talking about?"
I nod reluctantly. "I started getting them about a year ago, right after I performed at the Grammy's. I assumed they were from some preacher who was upset about my performance. I don't really know anyone…" I trail off, a disturbing thought crossing my mind. My mom is heavily involved in a church of sorts. It's more of a cult than anything, truthfully. She has been for most of my life. It's part of the reason my parents were always so deadest against me pursuing music as a career. But she wouldn't do something like this. She wouldn't try to kill me. She barely even speaks to me. Besides, my mom is tiny. The guy who tried to shoot me wasn't tiny.
"What?" Ronan asks. "What was that thought?"
"It was nothing."
"Liar," he says, his eyes narrowed on my face. "You thought of someone."
"I didn't," I lie.
"Don't lie to me, songbird. I can't help you if you lie to me." His dark green eyes glitter, his expression severe. "And it'll just piss me off if I have to find the answer myself."
I scowl at him, annoyed at how freaking bossy he is. "I thought I hired a bodyguard," I mutter. "Not a freaking drill sergeant."
"Well, you got both. Deal with it, baby." He hooks his foot around the leg of my chair, dragging it around to face him. "Who did you think about that you don't want to tell me about?"
"My mom," I growl. "I thought about my mom, okay? But I know it wasn't her because I saw those letters and she didn't write them. And I saw the person pointing a gun at me and it wasn't her. She's shorter than I am. He was a lot taller, and he was built like a man."
He stares at me in silence for a moment, not blinking. "You aren't close with your mom."
It's not a question.
"My parents don't approve of my career choice. Music was fine when I sang in the church choir, but once I quit college to pursue a career, they made it pretty clear they didn't support me or my choices," I say, staring at the table. My mom rules the roost and my dad goes along with her. It's been that way my entire life.
"Jesus," he growls, plucking me out of my chair. He plops me down in his lap, tilting my head back until I'm forced to meet his gaze. "You deserve better, songbird. I'm sorry."