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)
“I’m not taking his money, Frankie.”
“Here’s an option…” She taps her chin. “You and Kody can make some videos of you chopping wood with your shirts off. Think about it. A Viking and an Alaskan lumberjack. It would go viral and make a shitload of money.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Kody mutters.
“Liar. I’ve seen you scrolling for hours through videos.” I shake my head. “And the answer is no. We have more fucking pride than that.”
“Then accept Monty’s offer.” She crosses her arms.
“What if I told you it was your inheritance?” Monty lifts a brow. “Denver had money. Nearly as much as I have. It’ll be hung up in probate for a while, but not forever. You’re his only heir. It’s yours.” His eyes shift to Kody. “And Rurik’s fortune will go to you.”
Silence. Thick, poignant silence.
We hadn’t considered that.
“Where is Rurik’s money now?” Frankie asks.
“Tied up in offshore accounts.” Monty rubs his temple, looking exhausted. “I never touched it. Never tried. I want nothing to do with it.”
“It’s dirty money.” Kody frowns. “We don’t want it, either.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” She sits taller. “Monty didn’t touch it because he didn’t need it. You do.”
“She’s right.” I find her hand, my thumb gliding across her knuckles. “We’re in this position because of choices made by Denver and Rurik. The money may be dirty, but we earned it through every scar they inflicted on us. I see it as blood money.”
Kody exhales in reluctant agreement.
The rest of the ride passes in quiet introspection. As we approach the island, something akin to resolution circulates in my veins.
We have a plan—the distillery, flight school, protect Frankie, and depend on Monty until the inheritance comes in.
Is he the threat? I’m not so sure. But I can’t let that possibility linger without taking action.
If this is a trap, we’ll set a trap right back and use him in the process.
We need to create a situation where Monty thinks he has the upper hand, where he believes he can terrorize her without us knowing. If he takes the bait, we’ll have our answer.
I know exactly how we’ll do it.
“Threatening messages aside…” She leans her head on my shoulder, her eyes half-closed. “Today was a really good day.”
“Yeah.” As I rest my lips on her brow, my eyes connect with Monty’s. “It was.”
27
Monty
—
The grandfather clock chimes with a solemn cadence, marking the passage of time in the den. It’s been two months since Kody became the owner of Tipsy Sailor, with my backing as a silent partner.
Two months of progress on so many things. Except the one thing I want.
My wife.
I sit in a leather armchair, its creases worn from years of use. The room smells of wood polish, expensive bourbon, and testosterone-fueled distrust.
Across from me, Dr. Doyle Whitaker lounges with pedantic confidence, his pen poised over a notebook, his eyes scanning me with a practiced clinical detachment.
Ten minutes into our session and my head pounds like a motherfucking bitch.
“If you’re not going to talk,” he says, “why am I here?”
Therapy is a charade, a waste of time. Frankie thinks it will help, but I know better. This man, with his calculated concern, cannot be trusted.
I meet his gaze with steely silence, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
He shifts in his seat, undeterred by my hostility. “It’s been over two months since Kody and Leo moved to the island. That’s a significant change. How are you adjusting to their presence?”
Adjusting. The word feels grossly inadequate. My life has been in raging, sucking turmoil since their arrival.
Every day, my beautiful wife slips further from my grasp. Kody and Leo, with their feral energy and constant hovering, complicate everything.
She’s never alone. Never without one or both of them breathing down her neck.
They leave no room for me, no angle to make a move.
“I don’t need to adjust.” I interlock my fingers in the space between my knees. “This is my island. They adjust to me.”
He nods, jotting down notes. “You mentioned before that you don’t trust easily. Let’s explore that. Why do you find it difficult to trust those around you, including Frankie?”
A snarl rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.
She’s the only one I trust. She needs someone strong, someone who can protect her from the world. That someone is me.
“Trust is earned,” I say flatly. “Most people haven’t earned it.”
“What about your parents?” His pen scratches across the paper, an irritating sound that grates on my nerves. “Losing them must’ve been difficult. Do you think their death affected your ability to trust?”
“Digging up the past won’t change anything. They’re dead, and I have no interest in bringing them back.”
“It’s not about bringing them back. It’s about understanding how their loss shaped you. Sometimes acknowledging our pain is the first step toward healing.”