Total pages in book: 260
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
“Competitors … That fuck Tray, I’m pretty sure.” He swallows thickly, then finally looks back at me and says, “Reed made a few calls and found some people, so it didn’t happen a lot, but in the beginning … I thought they were going to kill me, Kat.” His voice is hoarse with raw emotion although his eyes don’t reflect it. His body is tight until he turns his attention back to the plate.
Tears prick the back of my eyes. There’s something about how he sits there, so matter of fact that they tried to kill him and that’s why he changed. He had to fight for his life. The boy I loved had a tenderness about him that’s all but hardened into unforgivable stone. I watched it happen and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t help him … I didn’t even know what he was dealing with. Before I have a chance to calm down and blink the tears back, they leak from the corner of my eyes.
Fuck. It comes out of nowhere.
It’s all the pent-up feelings of the last four years coming out of me in a rush. I’m out of my seat, hiding my face from Cill before he can see. I reach for a mug and pretend like I’m not losing it from his confession, but a sob is torn from me. He thought he was going to die. That they were going to kill him and he never told me or anyone. He lived with that fear.
I could never imagine—
Strong arms wrap around me and Cill turns me in his arms, holding me tighter as I try to bury my face in his shirt. It only makes me cry harder. It’s been so long since anyone held me like this. He rocks me as he holds me, kissing my hair. “Don’t worry, Hellcat. Don’t worry. Everything’s all right now.”
“I’m so sorry.” Embarrassment heats my cheeks. “I can’t control it … I just.” My throat is tight and the right words won’t come. “Neither of you told me.” I barely get out the words as Cill loosens his grip slightly to look down at me.
“Why would I, Kat? You couldn’t do anything to help me. No one could.”
My hands tremble as I furiously wipe away the tears and try to stop. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do this.” He kisses my cheek. “And I don’t want to hear you say that to me ever fucking again.”
I nod. His grip on me is strong. Stronger than it ever was when we were younger. His years in prison hardened him, aged him. They made his body different than I remember, yet it still feels familiar enough that I crave it.
His hand stays on my back, rubbing soothing circles as I sniffle and make a cup of coffee like I didn’t just have a fucking breakdown at the very beginning of our conversation.
Even as I scoop sugar out for the cup, my hand trembles. I just can’t imagine, day in and day out, trying not to die.
“Now you tell me something,” he murmurs into my ear. Cill doesn’t release me as easily as I thought he would. He squeezes me tighter for a second before he lets me go. It hurts to push away from him. I steady myself with a hand on his shoulder and he lets me.
“I—” It’s so difficult to speak, even more difficult to focus on one thing. But through my racing thoughts, one truth begs to be spoken. Something that might make him happy. “I stopped coming … but I wrote to you.”
His hand stops and falls, leaving a chill where his warm touch had soothed me. “I didn’t get any letters.”
I have to brace myself and gather my composure in order to show him. I don’t like that it requires putting any distance between us, but he needs to see this. Shaking off the sadness and putting an end to it, I head to the other end of the kitchen. If I’m ever going to tell him the truth, he has to know that I didn’t give up on him. As if I ever could. I never stopped needing him. I just didn’t have it in me to face him after what happened.
I didn’t deserve him anymore. I still don’t.
“I kept the notebooks in a drawer next to the sink.” I speak out loud, to drown out my thoughts, and I doubt he can hear me. Sniffling, I reach in and pull out two worn and used-up notebooks. They’re nothing special and a number of pages are smudged and crinkled from tears that fell on them during the harder nights.
I present both of them as Cillian stands behind me. Turning to him, I put them in his hands. “I wrote something to you every night.” My words are barely a murmur, my tone somber.