Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 143453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
I shake my head with the sole purpose of ensuring I’m not going insane.
Sure enough, the blonde comes back into focus, staring between me and her friend, who’s getting acquainted with Landon’s ruthless cane.
I didn’t even notice when he got the brunette on the floor and started his session. I didn’t hear her muffled cries or see her tears—usually, those are the highlight of my nights of cravings.
The blonde arches her back, thrusting her big tits in my direction, an invitation for me to give her the same treatment as her friend. She doesn’t move or crawl toward me, though, probably having been told by the waiter that I loathe disobedience.
Her face starts to blur again, changing, morphing into one that has no business being here.
I curse beneath my breath, turn around, and leave.
Not only the room but also the club and the street.
I walk all the way to the rocky side of the beach where a few people and couples are mingling about. I hop on a faraway rock and sit there, leaning back on my palms.
My gaze gets lost in the waves that slam against the jagged rocks in a symphony of violence.
I have always had an inclination toward brutality. Whether it’s underground fighting or inflicting sexual pain. It’s why I get along with morally black people such as Eli and Landon.
It’s also why I usually participate in any adrenaline-induced mayhem they plot. I need that deranged energy and the pure unhingedness that comes with it. It’s how I survive day-to-day.
I remain in the same position for over half an hour, but the pesky reason that I rushed out of the club is still plaguing my mind.
I fetch my phone and type a text to the one person who'd be able to explain the fuckery that just happened.
Creighton: What does it mean when you see another girl’s face on the one you’re about to fuck?
I say ‘fuck’ so I don’t have to mention the whipping and caning part. He wouldn’t judge, but he’d publish it in the Daily Mail for the world to see.
My cousin from my mother’s side replies almost immediately.
Remington: It means you should’ve fucked the other girl. The one whose face you saw, because your dick wants her and we always let our dicks decide who they fancy. That’s like the easiest and most logical explanation ever. Come on, spawn, my lordship taught you as much.
Creighton: I’m not even attracted to the other girl. She’s not my type.
Remington: Types are overrated. They can change.
My jaw clenches and I refuse to take Remi’s words as fact. After all, I’m the only one who considers him wise. Everyone else just seeks him out for fun times, not advice.
He’s probably the most balanced out of us all, but then again, he’s the only one in the house whose last name isn’t King.
Remington: And rude, btw, you left me on Read last night.
I exit the chat, leaving him on Read again.
But before I close the app, I go to someone else I’ve been leaving on Read for the last couple of weeks.
Annika.
My finger hovers over her endless texts. Some are telling me about her favorite music—classical. Her favorite film—Pride and Prejudice, all versions. Her favorite food—pizza—that she doesn’t get to eat a lot because of her disciplined routine. Some are selfies of her.
Those stopped after I ignored the first few.
Her last text was prior to the deliberate loss of control on my part.
Deliberate because I meant to push her away. So far away that she’d stop looking at me with those glittery eyes and parted lips.
It was my last bit of courtesy for someone who gave me food and didn’t hand me over to her brother on a silver platter.
That incident happened a week ago.
She’s kept her distance since—even during lunch. Before, she glued herself to my side and chattered happily until I got up and left.
Now, her chosen victims are either Remi or Bran. On and on, she talks to them about the last book she read or film she watched.
They listen to her, engage, and even reply.
Unlike me.
Ava even asked her if she’s finally given up on me. She laughed and subtly changed the subject.
She did give up.
Finally.
If I’d known it would be that easy, I would’ve shown her a hint of who I truly am a long time ago. That way, I wouldn’t have had to put up with her disturbing cheerfulness.
I click on the last selfie she sent two weeks ago. Her hair falls on either side of her face and she has both hands under her chin. She’s too young, oozing with an irritating type of happiness that grates on my nerves.
Yes, I’m young, too, but only in age. I’ve never felt young since the massacre.
A notification of a text shows up at the top of my phone. Did I somehow send a reaction or something?