Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 109882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Finally the door opened again, and I saw Damien hand Cameron a white rag. Cameron slipped in, his focus on his knuckles. That’s when I saw the blood covering them. I lifted my gaze to his white shirt, seeing the splatters of red along the stark light color.
“Did you kill him?” I asked softly, almost frightened to know the answer. He didn’t respond me right away, just continued to clean his hands off. I looked out my window, not expecting a response. This was Cameron, after all.
“Whether I did or didn’t isn’t the point.”
I glanced at him after he spoke. “Isn’t it?”
He looked at me then, his face hidden partially by the shadows, his expression void.
“No.”
I slowly inhaled, not sure if I should push this. I wanted to, wanted to see what he was thinking about, what was going on in his head. I wanted to learn about him, know what made him tick. But I also knew Cameron was a mystery, didn’t let people in, and I doubted even if he trusted them.
“But I didn’t kill him, even if I should have.” He stared me right in the eyes. “Make no mistake, Sofia. I wanted to rip his balls off and shove them down his throat for even thinking he could look at you.” This draft of frigid air slammed into me. “The fact he touched you…” He shook his head slowly. “If he wasn’t who he was, and a man I need alive for business purposes, I would have fucking gutted him.”
I breathed in and out hard and fast, his words like a knife, sharp, deadly.
“And no one would have fucking stopped me.” And then this expression covered his face, this hard, cold look that I felt to my bones. It was reflected at me. And then, just as fast as it had shown up, he masked it.
Cameron turned and looked out the window, and I did the same. I watched the scenery pass us by, not sure what the sudden change in him was. He seemed angry. Was he blaming this on me?
Why does it matter? In a few days I’ll be gone—all of this behind me, my life in front of me.
But that felt so empty.
Chapter
Nineteen
THE FINAL DAY
He’d kept his distance, made me feel isolated. I was starting to feel, to think, this had more to do with his emotions than the fact that he didn’t want me.
I found myself moving through the house, running my fingers along the smooth wood, taking in the desolate, dark pictures. The man I cared about, had fallen for during my short time here, was more of an enigma than anything else.
He’d been beaten as a child, given away as if he were nothing. He’d fought to survive…literally, and here he was now, standing tall, above everyone else. Although my life, childhood, hadn’t been this bottomless pit like he’d experienced, I did know the darkness he felt, even if it wasn’t nearly to the extent he did.
I found myself in front of the bird painting, staring at the mouth, the bleak eyes. I felt for Cameron, wanted to be the one who comforted him, shared in his pain. But a man like him, one who had been through so much, hid what he needed. He wasn’t normal in the sense that he needed, or wanted, comfort.
The way he got rid of that darkness, that hardness and hatred, was through rough contact and violence. He’d always be like that, and I accepted it. I accepted him.
I found myself moving away from the picture and back to the room. I’d be leaving tomorrow, saying good-bye to all of this, to Cameron. God, that hurt, made my chest ache. I rubbed it, right over my heart.
When I pushed the bedroom door open, I froze, seeing Cameron over by the window. His big body kept the curtain to the side as he stared out. There was a glass in his hand, presumably alcohol in it.
“Come in and shut the door,” he said, his voice soft, low.
I did as he said, but as soon as the door was shut, I felt like I was trapped, no way to escape, no real reason I would want to.
“Come here.”
I moved closer, feeling the air getting sucked out of my lungs, feeling the room grow hotter, everything becoming tighter. He stayed by the window, his focus on whatever was outside. It was dark, but there were lights on, golden illumination covering the manicured ground.
“I told you about my life.” He turned. “In a way, I suppose.” He took a small drink from his glass. “Beaten as a child, sold off to earn money for people who thought of us as nothing more than a commodity, a paycheck.” He finished off the drink and set the now empty glass on the windowsill. “And no amount of tattoos can cover up the lasting impression they had on me, or what I went through.”