Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 137176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
As I’d grown up, my grandfather had always treated me well, but after he’d died, my grandmother had finally told me the truth about the emotional and sometimes even physical abuse she’d endured at his hands. That was when I’d learned about the harsh realities of the world—that people, even the ones who claimed to love us the most, hid behind masks.
My grandfather had worn one of those masks and I’d never seen it. After learning the truth about what kind of man he’d really been, the memories of the times I’d spent with him at the cabin had become tainted with betrayal. I hadn’t returned to the place until I’d taken JJ there.
It didn’t take long to find my grandmother in the huge garden because she was only fifty feet or so from the entrance to the massive collection of flowers and greenery. There’d always been a gardener whose sole job had been to maintain the garden, but my grandmother had often taken it upon herself to root through the dirt to plant bulbs and trim back the prickly vines of her favorite flowers.
Roses.
That was what she was doing when I opened the black iron gate near the entrance of the garden. Instead of kneeling on the ground, she was seated on a small stool with a cart of some kind on her other side. I figured it was for remnants of the rosebushes she was cutting off.
Oddly enough, the rose garden had been one of the few things that had been off-limits to me as a child. I hadn’t really understood why, but I hadn’t dared ask my grandmother that. Like most kids, the curiosity had become too much one day, so I’d followed her into the garden. I’d gotten caught, of course, but I hadn’t expected more than a lecture similar to the quiet but firm ones I’d always gotten when I’d done something wrong. The trip to the garden had been different. I’d never seen my grandmother as angry as she’d been that day. I hadn’t even recognized her. Her fury had been that out of control. It was the first and only time she’d ever struck me. She’d never apologized for what she’d done but that had only left me feeling more guilty. I’d been so afraid of losing her, I’d never once disobeyed her after that.
I remained by the entrance to the garden and let out a discreet cough. It took another one to get her attention. When she looked up, she had to cover her eyes to shield the sun so she could see me. Something inside of me broke open when she put her hand over her mouth and began sobbing.
“Cassius,” she whimpered as she tried to stand.
Despite my natural inclination to stay out of the garden, her reaction had me hurrying to her and gathering her in my arms. I wasn’t sure if the lengthy embrace was more for her or for me. She sobbed against my shoulder, and I clung to her like she was the only lifeline I had left in the world. She was still slim and fragile, so I made sure not to put too much pressure on her body.
“Cassius,” she repeated as she leaned back and framed my face with her hands. “It’s really you,” she said in disbelief.
“It’s really me,” I responded as I let her look me over. I’d been fit before I’d joined the military, but years of training had made me stronger. Even in prison, I’d kept up my boot camp workouts, both to stay in shape and to keep my sanity.
“You should have told me you were coming,” my grandmother chided gently as she stepped back but continued to hold my hands. “My poor, sweet boy,” she said just before she broke into another fit of sobs.
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me, Mother Ashby,” I explained. Although I’d been calling my grandmother Mother Ashby because that’s what she’d told me to call her from the time I’d started talking, saying it now as a grown man sounded strange to my own ears. My grandmother had told me countless stories of my actual mother and how much she’d loved me, and yet my grandmother had given herself the title of mother. A title no one else had ever called her. As a child, I hadn’t questioned it because she, for all intents and purposes, had been my mother. Being framed for murder had taught me to never stop asking questions until I had the answer.
“Oh, my darling little rose,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice was crackly and breathless. “Renly!”
“Yes, mum,” Renly said from behind us. He was standing less than twenty feet away.
“Why didn’t you tell me my little rose was here?” she groused as she linked one of her arms with mine. I’d never been overly fond of her nickname for me, but the rest of the family had taken full advantage of it. My father, in particular, had never missed a chance to throw some taunting version of the flower nickname at me, even when I’d been in my teens.