Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
My throat bobs involuntarily, my nose nipping like someone’s punched me square in the face. Camden’s getting married? It’s been a long time since I’ve last seen him. Up until now, I stupidly believed that I still knew him. But the guy I left behind wouldn’t marry anyone who wasn’t me. By the time we parted ways, we were much the same. Our guards were up so high, we couldn’t even see beyond the walls we’d built.
I was his sun and his stars, his water and air. And in my eyes, he was beauty and art, witty and smart.
Now I want to kill him, and he. . .he wants to cage me.
Godfrey snaps me out of my reverie.
“Now take the girl away before I cut her open and sell her inner organs to the highest bidder. A few things before you go—one: Do. Not. Fuck her. She belongs to Camden, and if he wants her as a belated wedding gift as a sex slave until she’s dead, it’s for him to decide. Two—don’t buy into her prissy charade. The girl might be of pedigree, but she is the epitome of ruthless, and she will try to run away. I’d expect nothing less from the daughter of a dirty politician. Three—” He takes a deep breath, rubbing his thin eyelids. “Do. Not. Fuck her. I said it before, but I’ll say it again. My son is quite smitten with this one. I want her untouched and, as much as I hate to say it, unviolated. Don’t hit her too hard and don’t rape her. She’s Camden’s.”
This could have been touching if Godfrey wasn’t a kingpin with enough blood on his hands to fill a river, and Camden wasn’t a tailored, spoiled brat who lived off his father’s fortune and name. I hope my ex doesn’t plan on reproducing. The world needs more Archers like daytime TV needs more Friends reruns.
“No one’s gonna touch anyone,” Ink reassures, placing his gloved palm on his heart. He is standing close, too close. I hate it when men get too close.
The pulse in my neck is so strong, I’m worried my veins will burst. Sebastian walks behind me, untying the rope that chains me to the chair.
“Oh, and a word of advice,” Seb states casually with a deliberate tug that wounds my wrists, yanking me up to my feet. “Keep your masks on or blindfold her at all times. If she does get away, she will hunt you down and make fashionable jackets out of your skin. Make sure there aren’t any sharp objects anywhere near her—for the exact same reason. She can fuck you over so hard you won’t be able to walk straight for years.” He rubs the small of his back, probably reminiscing about the last time I saw him.
Seb circles to my front and throws an uppercut straight to my nose one more time before I leave. My head swings backward and my skull finds the wall. I’m shaking, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t cry.
Happy thoughts.
Iowa fields.
White summer dress, cold against my warm skin.
Chocolate covered cherries.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t. Cry.
“Farewell, little rascal. Next time I see you, I’ll tuck you in goodnight before your eternal slumber.” Seb kisses my bleeding forehead gently, licking his lips—and my blood—with a smirk.
Ink’s mouth drops into a stunned O through his ski mask.
Beat’s smiling mask is trained on Seb. They don’t know that last time I met him, I pushed Seb from the rooftop of a barn.
He was lucky he fell straight into the arms of his boss, otherwise, he’d be as broken as Godfrey.
Beat slingshots Seb against the wall, twisting the collar of his crisp shirt into a heap of wrinkles. “Hitting girls now, Sebastian?” he hisses, grasping Seb’s jaw and squeezing so hard, the impending sound of a bone breaking fills the air. “And here I thought you couldn’t get any worse than you were in San Dimas.”
Seb laughs and pushes the big guy away.
“A girl? She’s the fucking devil. Her ex-boyfriend calls her Diabla. That’s Diablo with a cunt. All yours now. Have fun, mate.”
The ricochet of Godfrey and Seb’s laugher dances against the naked walls of the warehouse as Ink leads me to the door by the arm. Beat is hot on our heels, and panic takes over my feet, making me stumble like a drunk.
I don’t want to leave.
I don’t want to stay.
Not that it matters. I’m screwed either way.
“We need to search her for potential weapons.” Ink tugs at the fabric of my dress. Beat grunts from behind us. We pour into the thinning summer night, the stars above me dimmed by pollution and the coat of tears I resist shedding.
My stress ball. I need it. Now.
“I volunteer,” Ink snorts, his palm stroking the curve of my ass hesitantly. Scared.