Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 202770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1014(@200wpm)___ 811(@250wpm)___ 676(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 202770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1014(@200wpm)___ 811(@250wpm)___ 676(@300wpm)
“In other words, my brother accused me of killing my other brother?” he challenges.
The door opens behind us as Smith calls out, “All clear.”
I twist around to look at him and he motions to the seat in the corner. “I’ll be around if you need me. Or, if you need a big boy to talk to.”
“Funny,” I say. “Really, actually it is. I’m laughing on the inside. I’ll laugh tomorrow. I hope. If this is over. Thanks for the future laugh.” I’m rambling. I never ramble, and Jax responds by kissing my hand and murmuring, “Let’s go inside, baby.”
I nod. “Yes. Let’s go inside.” Only my feet don’t want to move.
Jax’s hand comes down on my lower back, urging me forward, and somehow, my feet magically shuffle forward. My toes are numb. My arms are numb. My heart is not. Jax opens the door for me, and I step inside the lovely house that represents a future with this man, the place his father brought his boys when their mother left. The ghosts of the castle. Those words pop in my head, and oh God. Was he saying—did he tell me that she was—
The door shuts, and Jax locks it.
He turns to face me, and I face him, that ghost comment he’d made popping into my head. “Is your mother dead, Jax?”
Chapter eighty-four
Jax
Is my mother dead?
“To me,” I answer. “You know that, Emma. She left. I wouldn’t know if it were her wedding day or her funeral.”
“You said that I was seeing castle ghosts. I thought—”
“And you were right,” I say. “She’s dead to me, Emma.”
“That wasn’t a random statement. It didn’t feel random.”
Suffocating in this topic, I yank at my tie and pull it loose. “There’s always been talk of a ghost in the castle. A woman in red. That’s why my mother wore that damn red dress and red in general. She wanted us to focus on what was real. You’d think that made her a good mother, but ironically, she made the red dress all about the past and a damn ghost of a woman.” I shrug out of my jacket and toss it on the couch. “I need a drink.” I walk into the kitchen and round the corner to a small bar area where I unscrew the lid on a ridiculously expensive bottle of whiskey that my father left me. I’d been saving it for a special occasion. This isn’t it, but it’s an occasion all right.
Emma appears beside me. I fill a glass and down the wickedly smooth whiskey. Papa North knew how to make it right. I refill the glass and offer it to Emma. “It’s thirty-thousand-dollar whiskey. A gift from my father. His own special batch, an aged limited edition.”
“Jax, if that wasn’t your mother—”
“It wasn’t my mother.” A tight knot forms in my chest. I down the whiskey I’d offered her, the burn washing right past it, but it’s still fucking there. I refill yet another glass, but this time, I press it into her hand. “Drink.”
“Then it was someone who knew about the red dress, someone who knew I’d think it was your mother.”
“This is a very special bottle. It’s a very special bottle that I swore I’d share with no one, but I am with you. Drink.”
Her eyes go wide, and she sips the whiskey. “Oh my,” she says. “That is—it’s good.”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“Jax—”
“Brody. Jill. Half the staff. They all know about the red dress and the ghost.”
“There’s more to this, Jax. I was told two people had a motivation to kill your brother. I don’t even want to say the name but you aren’t asking either. Why?”
“Brody,” I say. “Which is ridiculous. I’d have to die for him to inherit.” I sip the whiskey and set the glass on the bar counter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Jax, please listen.”
I step into her, tangling my fingers in her hair. She smells sweet, like vanilla and honeysuckle. I love the fuck out of how she smells. “They’re trying to scare you away. Are you going to let them win?”
“Maybe it’s you someone is trying to scare,” she warns, grabbing my shirt. “Or maybe they want to hurt you, Jax.”
There’s a dark pulse of emotion inside me that needs to go away. “Then I guess you’d better hold on tight,” I say, and my mouth closes over hers, my tongue licking against her tongue, heat, anger, an old bleeding wound, all colliding in this moment.
She shoves on my chest. “Jax.”
“Clearly, you need another drink.”
“You need to listen.”
“You need to drink.”
“I don’t drink well, remember?” she challenges. “The way you don’t listen well, apparently. What are you doing right now? Why are you putting this wall up?”
“You can drink,” I say. “I’ll take care of you. You have me now.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of.”