Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
His freshly washed hair clumps across his brow, still damp. His suit hangs askew on his hunched shoulders.
A mess of cuts and bruises covers one hand, his knuckles swollen and raw, adding to the image of a man who’s losing a battle with himself.
A man on the brink of self-destruction.
And hungover.
Last night was long for Montgomery Strakh, and I don’t have to guess why.
How many punches did he throw in a jealous rage? How many bottles of whiskey did he escape into?
Nothing will bring her back to him.
I feel a twinge of compassion as I engage his venomous stare. Just a twinge. Nothing more.
He hurt my girl and deserves every stab of guilt and pain that torments him.
Pulling out the chair across from him, I settle in. “You look like shit.”
He drags his angry gaze over my tied-back hair, beard, and clenched teeth in my feral smile. “You look like you’re ready to raid a village and rape its women.”
“Already pillaged and plundered this morning. Met my quota for the day.” I rest my elbows on the table, leaning in. “Let’s cut the bullshit. I see the temper you’re trying to conceal beneath that suit. I recognize it.” I hold up my hand, letting him inspect the scarred skin across my knuckles. “Guys like us can’t exorcise our demons without breaking things.” I tilt my head. “What are your demons?”
“I think you know.”
“I know one of them. I lived with him for twenty-seven years.”
He bends his fingers, stretching the broken skin as he broods and ruminates. The forced casualness in his movements doesn’t hide the ticking time bomb in his eyes.
“Do you see that sick fuck when you look at me?” I ask.
“You are his son.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.” His gaze fixates on me, his tone biting and cold. “I don’t see him in you. Your eyes are…fucking strange.”
“Strange is better than evil.”
“You look like your mother. Tia.”
“Tell me about her.” My breath quickens at the thrill of that discovery. “Did she have my eyes?”
“I don’t remember. Never paid attention to her. Never talked to her.”
“Because she was the lowly help? The groundskeeper’s daughter?”
“No. Because she was a child.”
“That’s fair.” I sit back and drum my fingers on the table. “Let’s talk about why you didn’t sleep last night.”
Since I know Frankie is the reason, I expect him to either shut down or blow a fuse.
He does neither.
“I haven’t slept in nine months.” He clears his throat, his jaw flexing. “I failed her. I won’t gloss over my mistakes with generic words. I fucked up, and I own it.”
“You have the knuckles of a man who’s unraveling. You own that, too?”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Considering the things my father did to me and my brothers, I’m entitled to some unraveling.”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Then he meets my gaze. “I don’t talk about my feelings. I push it all down and pack it away until I break. Or break something.” He glances at his hand. “I’m not afraid of vulnerability. So if you think I’ll slink off with my tail between my legs rather than face what I’ve done, you’re wrong. I’ll show up for her, one hundred percent, even on my worst days when I’m stripped and gutted with my jealousy and guilt hanging out of the holes in my chest.”
Well, that was…candid.
Part of me wants to believe him. The other part hopes he’s lying, so I can justify rearranging his face every time he looks at Frankie.
Denver camouflaged his evil beneath a charming smile and composed demeanor.
Is Monty a monster like my father? Or is he just a miserable pantywaist with no ill intent? If it’s the latter, she’ll eventually forgive him. She’s too compassionate to hold onto her resentment for long.
But will she trust him again?
God, I fucking hope not.
We sit in a stifling standoff, neither of us speaking, until the back door creaks open.
A man with a wrinkled scowl steps outside. He’s older, distinguished, with a judgmental look in his eyes that immediately makes me uneasy.
He strides toward us with a sense of purpose, chin held high, his gait ceremonious and deliberate.
“You must be Leonid, Monty’s nephew.” He bows his head in a formal gesture, his silver hair meticulously combed back from a stern brow.
My eyes narrow. He knows who I am?
“I’m Oliver.” His voice carries a faint accent, tinged with an old-world courtesy that feels out of place. “I’m responsible for making Monty eat, though I’ve done a terrible job as of late.” He gives Monty’s thin frame a disapproving once-over.
The man’s tailored navy suit seems too courtly for the casual setting. A gold watch chain peeks from his vest pocket, glinting in the early light.
Weird.
“Are you the butler?” I ask.
“The chef.” He sniffs. “Would you like coffee? Juice? Something to eat?”