Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I’m still on Cain’s lap, snuggled in like I belong here. He lazily strokes his hand across my shoulder. Behind me lies the tray with the dinner we ate a while ago, the remains of chicken and potatoes that filled our bellies.
“It’s time to come up with a summary. You’ve filled in more blanks than I have. Took me four fucking weeks just to compile the list of foster parents.”
“Why?” I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. And for God’s sake, if you’d only asked me…”
“You’d remember the name of the family that took you in when you were six?”
“Well, no, but I could remember some things.”
“You did, baby, but not the details from when you were a child. Hell, Violet, I think you blocked half of them from your fucking memory.”
Maybe I did.
He pulls up a screen and begins to read the notes we’ve compiled.
“Your dad was killed when you were four. Your name at the time was Violet, should’ve been Violet Bates, but nowhere in any record do you exist.”
According to public record, my parents had no children. “That’s odd, isn’t it? How was someone who didn’t exist put into the foster care system?”
He nods. “But you needed something to graduate high school, to get a job. What did you have for paperwork?”
I shrug. “My social worker gave me everything. But if there’s no record of my birth, where did she get it from?”
He makes another note to find her, then taps something onto his phone to Joe before he continues summarizing everything we’ve found.
“You believe your father was an assassin, because your foster parents at one point mentioned to each other they had you in their care because they were trying to right a wrong, and we can assume that wrong was your father’s history.”
“Well, yes. They said my parents.”
He pauses. “Is there a chance your mother was an assassin, too?”
I sit with this for a moment. “I… remember her being gentle. I remember she liked to sew. She didn’t eat meat, but she’d make me chicken tenders.” I shake my head. “How could a seamstress vegetarian be an assassin?”
Cain spins me around to look at him. “Never, ever assume.” He bends down and kisses me, a gentle brush of his lips to mine, before he looks away. “I can be gentle, too, Violet.”
I shiver. I know Cain’s called The Executioner, and he’s told me a bit about his past, but I never really put the words assassin and executioner side-by-side.
“Do you consider yourself an assassin, Cain?”
He doesn’t blink or look away. “I do.”
I’m falling in love with a murderer. Someone who takes the lives of others without regret, and I don’t know how to stop.
He holds my chin so I can’t look away. “You knew when you came here who I was, Violet. You knew when you offered to work for me what I do.”
“I know some of what you do, yes, but not all of it.”
“You knew that I killed for hire, and that I’ll do it again.”
My voice is hoarse with emotion. “I do.”
“But this isn’t about me. Soon, I’ll tell you everything I learned about how to be a good assassin, since this knowledge will help us find more about your parents.”
I straddle him, reach for his face, and frame it in my hands. My fingers graze his stubble. “Tell me now.”
He lays his hands over mine. “We go through the rest of what we know, and then I’ll tell you.” He bends and kisses the very top of my left breast, then the right. Shivers skate down my spine. “I want you in bed when I tell you.”
Ah. So we’ll have one of those conversations. His specialty.
My sex clenches, eager to be filled by him, manipulated by him, eager for what I know he could give me and will.
With reluctance, I turn back to the computer screen.
“These are the names of some of the people who fostered you. Most seem innocent enough. They fostered several dozen kids spanning several decades, and still have solid relationships with some of them. Joe researched them for me. This family, though… the one you were with when you were ten. They’re problematic.”
I can still see her glaring at me over the top of her glasses before she hauled me to the closet. Bitch. “Yeah. I know.”
“I can’t find them on record anywhere. No names. No history. It’s why I asked if you knew if they were alive, because there is no record of where they are now.”
“How strange.”
“But there’s one single thread that unites all of the families that took you into their homes.”
I look over my shoulder at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. They were all married at the same church, by the same minister.”
Okay, so he really did do his research. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Guy by the name of Gray Descamps. Still stationed in the First Church of Christ, North Shore.”