Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
A renewed bout of panic hiked her pulse and sealed her airway. What the hell was she thinking? Fuck the package. She had to break free. Lock the door. Call the cops. She could reach the door in one or two running leaps.
Her heart raced, nearly exploding, as she thrashed against him. His arms pinned her biceps, so she swung her fists, aiming for his groin and missing. He wrestled her hands to her sides, everything moving too quickly to process. She simply reacted, slamming her head back again and collided with his chest.
The grunt of pain that followed resuscitated her flight response. She thrust all her weight against his arms, her heels scraping the concrete. “Let me go, you psycho.”
His exhales grew heavy, curling over her shoulder and pitching her into a breathless frenzy. The more she shoved against him, the tighter his arms constricted, lifting her until her feet kicked air. “What are you fighting? Fear?” His mouth touched her ear, his timbre a silken noose around her neck. “Fear is an imposture, little girl. It doesn't bruise or thrust or bite.” His grip tightened. “Fear is not your Master.”
Oh, holy mother. What was he saying? The terrible dread that occupied her belly bristled with thorns, impaling her with nightmares of public places, crowds, nowhere to hide, loss of motor control. And now her superficial fears embodied a very real, in-the-flesh threat.
He was going to take her, discover all her imperfections, and reject her. Abandon her somewhere away from home. Or kill her.
A furor of tears shot through her eyes and soaked her lashes. She clawed at his arms and stabbed her heels at his shins. If she could refill her lungs, she might be able to muster a scream big enough to wake the neighbors.
But she’d never seen a single person who lived on her street. How judgmental were they? If they came out, would they just stand there and gape? Oh God. “I have nothing you want.” She panted, choked. “I'm nothing. Let me...go.”
“As you wish.” His arms vanished.
The concrete stoop crashed against her knees, and pain ricocheted through her legs. Oh God, maybe he'd only been trying to help her stand? She'd overreacted, made a freak of herself.
She gagged on a sobbing exhale, and her fingers scraped the ground, searching for the package and coming up empty. Another torrent of nausea gripped her body, singeing her insides and spinning the ground beneath her.
She pushed through the disorientation and crawled toward the door as fast as she could. The metal threshold sliced her knees, but she was too numb and dizzy, seconds from fainting. She could feel him behind her, a thick cloud of judgment with eyes scorching her skin, witnessing her shame.
You think they don't know how fucked up you are? Everyone knows. You're a fucking embarrassment.
Oh, if Brent could see her now, dragging her body, snot dripping from her nose. What a fool she was. Maybe the prowler would shoot her and put her out of her misery.
She gripped the doorjamb. Fuck Brent. Fuck all of them. She pulled her legs inside and glanced at the blockhouse of muscle behind her as she swung the door. And froze.
The interior light caught the face within the hood. Her heart constricted, and her hand stopped the door, just a crack.
He hadn't moved from where he'd released her. Hands in his pockets, he regarded her with a lift of one dark eyebrow. His full lips pursed around a toothpick, hollowing his cheeks. A strong jaw and hard gray eyes roughened his model-like prettiness. But the thick scar bisecting his cheek was what stayed her hand, pinning her to the floor and summoning the deepest, most troubled part of her.
The gash curved from the outer crease of his eye to the crook of his mouth. It should've impaired his confident gaze and brutalized the symmetry of his deep-set eyes and chiseled nose. It should've made her look away.
Instead, it demanded tolerance, homage even, and fortified the savagery of his beauty. He was a perfect imperfection.
Her ogling had only lasted a heartbeat. Perhaps, another second drinking in his good looks wouldn't hurt, but as she leaned in, the door swung closed and erased him from view.
The air returned to her lungs. She locked the dead bolt four times and collapsed onto her back.
Who was he? How did he get the scar? What did he want? She replayed the potency of his voice, the strength of his arms, and the flaw in his flawless face. He was fascinating. Though to be fair, she hadn't been outside in two years. A stray dog might've been just as enchanting. Actually, what was more fascinating was that she was thinking about him and not her lost mail.
She sat up, her pulse redoubling. Her mail. Her fucking package. Goddammit, she couldn't go back out there. It was a guaranteed panic attack, one she might not survive. She gripped the middle row of knuckles and exhaled with each crack. If she didn't go back out there, she wouldn't have the dye to finish the leathercraft orders. She wouldn't get paid. Wouldn't be able to stop the water from being shut off.