Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
"You can't fix me, Iris. No one can," I hiss, taking a sloppy swig from the bottle. My vision is blurring so much, and I can feel my mind going into overdrive.
"You can," she tells me. "You're strong."
"Am I? Or am I just a pathetic addict? A failure."
"You're not a failure," she whispers, cupping my cheek.
"Leave. Please." I groan and drink more. Anything to forget.
"Why?" she whispers.
"Because you can't be here. Not with me," I hiss.
"Do you really want me to go?" she asks.
"Yes. No. I don't know," I hiss, slamming the bottle down on the desk. Iris grabs it and sets it aside before placing her hands on my thighs, but I'm too far gone now.
I remember this part of addiction–I used to call it a bad trip. Nothing makes sense. I no longer recognize the woman before me.
No, not woman–she's a girl.
A young girl. My daughter?
"Get away from me, honey," I manage. "I don't know who you are."
"It's me, Mr. Beckett, you know me," she whispers.
"Don't care," I say, shaking my head. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Iris."
"Fuck off, Iris," I snap.
"No. Not until you stop this. You've had enough. You're drunk. You're scaring me." She does look scared, her big blue eyes swimming with fear.
"Go home. Please," I beg, running my fingers through her hair. I grab the bottle before she can stop me, and finish it off.
"I'm not leaving you alone," she says.
"I'm not asking," I snap, my tone getting harder.
"You can't stop me."
"Watch me," I growl.
She's so sweet, so innocent. How could I ever hurt her?
"Don't. You're a good guy, Vincent. You can do this," she whispers.
"Don't call me that," I hiss, grabbing her arm and pulling her onto my lap.
She lands awkwardly, straddling my hips.
"Viper," she whispers.
"There, that's better. My name. You can't be here, though," I whisper. "I can't resist you. You're so beautiful. So good."
"So bad," she whispers.
"That's it," I say, pulling her closer. "You're so bad. So sweet. I bet you're so wet for me."
She bites her lip. "Please."
"No, baby, please," I beg. "Please don't go. I want you. I can't have you, but fuck, I want you."
"Why not?" she asks, her voice breaking.
"Because... Because..."
I can't remember.
I'm so drunk.
Why am I even awake right now? Oh, because of her.
She's still straddling me, and suddenly, the room is spinning. My stomach churns. Monsters creep from the shadows, and all I see is darkness.
"I can't..." I say, pushing her off me.
"Viper?"
"You're the devil," I whisper. "Sent to ruin my life. And fuck, you're good."
"Viper, you're not making any sense," she tells me, trying to stop me from falling.
"I have to go," I mutter. "Go away."
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"Anywhere," I whisper, trying to push her away. "Anywhere I don't have to look at you."
The house is spinning on its axis as I crash into the hallway, and my knees buckle beneath me.
I land face first on the hardwood floors, and I groan as my forehead cracks, blood pooling on the hardwood. I raise my head and see them again.
The snakes.
They come out every time I do this. Long, slithering, hissing creatures that want me dead.
They're everywhere. On the floor, the walls, the ceiling. In my head.
"Viper?"
"Not now, baby," I growl. "Daddy's seeing snakes again... You know you have to run."
CHAPTER ONE
Iris
I dip the needle into the pot of dark teal ink, focusing intently on the intricate lotus blossom taking shape on my client’s bare skin.
Just a few more petals and highlights to finish this section.
But I can’t seem to lose myself fully in my work like I usually do.
Not with Lyon’s brooding presence looming over my shoulder, his eyes tracking my every movement.
I grit my teeth and try to block him out, determined not to let him ruin my flow.
This full floral back piece has been both a challenge and a joy to design and execute over the last few sessions with my client.
I refuse to let Lyon’s petty bullshit sabotage that.
Ignoring the prickling sensation of his stare, I refine a few delicate brushstrokes of lime green in the lotus center.
My client sighs contentedly, her shoulders relaxing as she sinks deeper into the chair.
At least she seems at peace, even if I’m a bundle of agitation under the surface.
I risk a glance over my shoulder and sure enough, there’s Lyon—arms crossed over his tattooed chest, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place.
Which, I suppose he does, being my boss and all.
But that doesn’t give him free rein to crowd my space and distract me while I’m with a client.
My fingers tighten on the tattoo machine as I pivot back to my work, jaw clenched.
I’ve put up with his lurking and loaded comments ever since our breakup a few weeks ago.
His weak attempts to win me back, or punish me for leaving him, I’m not entirely sure.