Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Mine to own.
Now all I own are my bloody tears, and I’m not ready to let those fall yet. By now, we’ve ventured blocks away from the palace. Although on edge, the tosser has captured my interest without a commandment.
Aggrieved, I gasp, “How do I concern you?”
I fucking await his response.
Shock widens his eyes. “You are my son.”
At that, I continue walking. The only love I know from Silas comes with a black eye. The only guidance was to measure my breathing at age eight while peering through the scope of a sniper rifle. Albeit impeccable advice, it’s utterly useless in this scenario.
I duck down when I see Madeline’s Mini Cooper surrounded by guards.
That cunt is going on the list with the other cunt who is dead to me.
My mother.
Father ducks down, too.
“Give me your keys,” I tell Silas.
“I’ll not aid your suicide mission.”
“I’ll will everything I own to you. You fancy all my riches?”
“You’re my first son,” he whispers harshly.
“And you are the last-born son to the Queen,” I quip.
His eyes turn a stormy green. Silas stands up and shouts, “Hello!”
The pedestrians and tourists look in our direction. A few gazes brighten, familiar with our royal lineage, and soon a couple of busybodies have shared our status with the masses. I offer a stiff nod, strolling toward the guards. Their tense faces relax at the notion I’m presenting myself in a civilized and noble manner.
“Aww, you could’ve played the wanker, Victor. You’re too soft,” Silas whispers to me before taking steps toward a few onlookers. His tone pitches in a congratulatory manner. “I’m bloody chuffed to bits! My son’s engaged!”
6
Luxury
The door to my room springs open. Hadiyah’s eyes connect with mine in a stern reminder for me to remain silent. She moves into a flawless curtsy as Al Rafi enters, her prideful eyes falling to the gilded marble flooring. He’s replaced the suit with a vibrant red silk robe. The cord barely makes it around the width of his belly. He steps toward her. Since he comes from behind, it takes Hadiyah a second for her disgust to evaporate. His fat hands know every inch of her body. The back of his knuckles caresses her cheek. It prompts warmth from the whore’s brown cheeks, a simple delight that she had to have learned.
The gesture causes Hadiyah to bow once more and back toward the front door of my apartment.
“Have you chosen your role, Luxury? I pray you thought long and hard.” His eyes lock on mine. My skin begins to crawl with the infestation of a trillion tiny ants. Might as well be flesh-eating. “See your surroundings? I enjoy treating my women with the best of everything. You care for me. I care for you.” He pauses, and I remain quiet. “Speak!” he shouts, making me jump.
“Al Rafi, I choose freedom.” The words spray across the room, as does the blood from my mouth. My lips and the left side of my face scorch with the fire of his hit. I hold my ground, shoulders lifted.
“Bed maid?” he replies through clenched teeth.
“N—”
“You choose the role of a whore? You were Tudor’s whore. I—in my attempts to cleanse you from such a sinful life—decided to marry you!” he shouts, claws digging into my neck.
This motherfucker has lost his mind. Marry me? I’m sure he has “married” a throng of women. I clamp down on my tongue in pain. A coppery taste engulfs my mouth. I bite harder to stifle a scream and gulp more blood. With my head bowed, he walks me from the living room and into my bedroom. Fingernails cleave into the back of my neck like I’m a bitch.
A dog.
An animal.
Finally, the assault ends when my body’s thrown onto the bed. I start to push off my hands and knees. Al Rafi’s fleshy fingers claw into my calf muscle.
I scurry toward the headboard.
A trillion scrapes of nerve endings set off like wild electricity when he dominates the edge of the bed, sausage fingers touching the tip of his robe.
Blood slams my eardrums at the same rate as the urgent knocking at the door.
At first, I wonder if the knocking is my imagination. I’ve crawled into the fetal position, curly hair shielding my sight.
The door pounding intensifies, and there’s a grunt and another heavy breath as Al Rafi hoists himself up.
They speak in a different language, tone rapid, insistent.
There’s trouble brewing, yet I’m too afraid to hope.
Too afraid to recall the rainbow Vic and I saw in Central Park not long ago.
Too afraid to reminisce on his lips boldly touching my forehead after I warned of the intimacy poured into such an act.
Too afraid to even beg for the dysfunction Victor wrought the second I opened a chapter in his life that he greedily hoarded for only himself.
Reality bulldozes my thoughts as Al Rafi strolls into the room. “I’ve pertinent business that cannot wait.”