Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
The road leading to the lighthouse grows narrower and narrower. It’s not wide enough for a vehicle. I’m glad when I see him take off his jacket and lay it over my unconscious wife. It’s a gesture I won’t forget even if that jacket is sodden. When he does, I glimpse his wrist as I slip my hand into my pocket and wrap my fingers around my find.
But then Madelena makes a sound, turning her head, and my attention returns to her.
“Get a car,” I tell Caius. “We’ll take her to the house. We can’t carry her through the club with all those people in there. Get Cummings to follow us.”
He nods. “I’ll meet you at the house.” He stops, puts that hand on my shoulder again, and looks at me. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
I nod in acknowledgement and move quickly toward one of our SUVs. We slide Madelena into the backseat and I follow her, laying her head on my lap. My gut tightens as I look at that bruise along her jaw. Fingerprints. It could only be left by a hand about my size.
Again my father’s words echo, followed by Thiago’s warning, as I watch her too-young, too-innocent face in her unconscious slumber.
2
MADELENA
Rain pelts us like daggers of ice. This storm will be the end of us. The wooden planks are slippery. Repairs should have been completed months ago, and we shouldn’t be out here.
The scream repeats, and I’m not sure if it’s my mother’s or his.
Santos? No. He didn’t scream.
Santos.
A hopeless keening seems to come from inside of me. I was falling in love with him all these years. Stupid, stupid me. Now he’s dead, his blood still warm on my hands.
Eyes like steel bore into mine. They’re so cold that I don’t know if it’s the look inside them or the storm that has me shivering. The skin of his neck is thickly scarred where rope bit into it. It’s terrifying to see, but when I shift my gaze to his eyes, they’re no less so. But he caught me when I slipped, didn’t he? His hard grip was to pull me back from a certain death on those rocks, in those freezing waters.
History repeating.
Like mother, like daughter.
Someone calls my name, but I can’t open my eyes. Rain beats too hard against my eyelids.
What am I doing at the lighthouse? Why did I come here?
I hear the scream again, a man’s scream.
Thiago.
The sensation of falling is a terrible one, but it wasn’t me who fell. Almost, but not quite.
I feel it again, Thiago’s grip around my wrist—being hoisted up then crashing back against the lighthouse wall. My head bouncing off the unforgiving surface.
Then the shadow that appeared behind Thiago, the other man whose face I did not see.
“I am not your enemy… Your enemy is much closer to home. In his veins is the blood of a monster.”
Thiago standing too close to the edge. A hand against a chest. A grunt. A scream.
“Madelena!” Thiago yells before he’s gone.
My eyelids fly open, and I bolt upright on a gasp. It’s too fast, and I regret it instantly. My head throbs and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the too bright light, the spinning room.
No more rain. No storm. It’s quiet here and warm.
I touch my head. It feels like someone is beating a drum from the inside. I open my eyes slowly. The spinning begins to slow, the blurred edges of my vision coming into focus.
The first thing I see is the richly patterned duvet. It’s luxurious with its deep sapphire hue, a delicate and detailed intertwining pattern. It’s expensive, I can tell. On the nightstand to my right is a glass of water, two small white pills on a pretty dish. The room itself is dimly lit, the walls papered in a deep charcoal with a subtle pattern that seems to add texture. The dresser at the far end looks like an antique. It’s as intricately carved as the nightstand. Heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains draping the windows are drawn shut.
The scent and feel are distinctly masculine—not to mention familiar.
The pounding of my head becomes more concentrated. I bring my hand to the back of it and gently touch the bump, which is tender. I hit my head twice. Once by accident. Once when the faceless man slammed it against the wall.
“Aspirin is on the nightstand,” comes the gravelly voice from an armchair in the far corner.
I gasp, surprised, but then a switch clicks, and Santos is bathed in the yellow light of a reading lamp.
Santos.
Santos, alive and well.
He’s dressed in a charcoal sweater and black slacks. His hair is brushed back from his face, and the scruff of his permanent five o’clock shadow has grown denser, darkening his jaw. In his eyes is a look so black, it simultaneously makes the hair on my arms stand on end and sends a flush of heat to my core. Strangely, it’s similar to how he looks when he’s aroused.