Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“That’s great to know. My husband’s a little shy, so he might prefer to come back when there’s fewer people around.”
Pete’s grin widens. “Nothing to be afraid of, we’re a friendly bunch!” He proceeds to pat Rowan’s forearm, and I kind of want to rip his hand off, but seconds later, he’s wheeling back to his table.
“Husband,” Rowan says and laughs nervously, but I spot the threat heading our way before he does, so I can’t entertain my sweetheart with jokes.
“Watch out,” I whisper, but Patrick Galanis comes up to us with a somber expression that suits his all-black outfit. It will be what he’s found dead in, if we choose not to get rid of the body.
“Rowan…” he says, and my man grabs my hand, no longer caring whether we’re alone or not.
Chapter 18
Rowan
This isn’t how I imagined speaking to Patrick Galanis for the first time after all those years. In my mind, I always beat him down with something heavy, and then, once blood glistens on his tan skin and his speech slurs, I tell him about all the ways in which he ruined my life.
But he was polite, almost cautious, when he invited us to his office at the back of the church. He left us to wait, saying he would be back as soon as everyone left, because he needed to talk to me. By the time I sat down in the room with wooden panels for walls and a large picture of the Holy Mary holding Baby Jesus behind the desk, the bloodthirst that led me here feels… tainted.
Maybe Saint was right? Maybe we should have killed our mark quickly, because seeing all the proof that the beast I remember Galanis as no longer exists, spoils my desire for revenge.
There’s a distinct, sour taste at the back of my mouth whenever I attempt to imagine the bastard dead, but now I can’t do that without envisioning all those parishioners mourning their shepherd. And I can’t help but wonder if years of hate didn’t make me into a monster selfishly wanting to take him away over something this new reformed Galanis would have never done.
But as I contemplate my choices with a heart of lead, Saint walks around the office with a small device in hand and hovers it around all the walls.
“What are you doing?” I mutter.
“Checking for cameras,” he says, bringing me back to the reality of what we came here to do. What I want to do.
“Do you think he wants to record us saying something incriminating?” Maybe that’s why he told us to wait here? So he can go back to his secret lair and turn on the cameras hidden in the eyes of statues.
“No, but better safe than sorry,” Saint tells me as he approaches the desk and casually opens all the drawers, as if they contain his own belongings. “I also need to know if we’re not at risk of being filmed as we take care of him, but there’s no cameras here.”
“Wait... what?” I utter, startled. “Here? Now?” My heart speeds up because it feels like too much too soon… Sure, I’ve seen Ted’s head, the concept of killing these men is more than real, but after talking to the living, breathing Galanis, I’m no longer sure if I can mow him down without thinking it all through.
Saint shuts the drawer, hides the device in the pocket of his coat, and sits in the chair next to mine. It’s only now that I realize why he insisted we both wear gloves. He came here intending to deal with my former tormentor right away, and he doesn’t want us to leave any incriminating evidence.
Shit.
Fantasizing about murder and actually planning it are two different animals. Right now, I wish I could slide off this one’s back.
Saint shrugs, looking elegant as he looks my way with his legs crossed. I’m suddenly reminded that the man who made me avocado toast with goat’s cheese for breakfast is in fact a wolf with sharp teeth and an appetite for murder.
“It’s the perfect opportunity. The sun is slowly going down, he is asking his congregation to leave. We will be alone with him. It would be a shame to not seize this kind of opportunity.”
My breath speeds up, and I’m getting a little sick. I don’t know if it’s because I’m terrified or excited. “And wh-what would we even do with the body?” I settle on a practical question because that’s easier than the moral dilemma I’m grappling with.
Saint reaches to my lap and squeezes one of my hands, which, I only now realize, I was clenching into a tight fist. “I have plastic sheets in the car. Are you having second thoughts about participating?” he asks with a gentleness I don’t feel I’ve earned.
What the hell is wrong with me that I want to see a man who managed to turn his life around dead? What would be the point, other than empty satisfaction? Then again, do I not deserve retribution? Why should my needs be less important?