Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Yells pitch the air. But no one stops us. No one comes to his defense. I’m done going easy on him.
Because he’s family.
Because I know better.
Because I’m too strong and I should use my strength to defend.
Tony scrambles to his feet with a wince. I knock his ass back on the floor, and we’re in a brawl. Fists flying, knees in ribs, and my pulse is ringing in my ear.
Blood in my mouth, I spit to the side, and we’re on our feet. I outsize Tony, and I pin him against the wall, a framed picture of Loch Ness crashing down. This isn’t even a fair fight. I could drag him halfway around the house, and the fire in my lungs starts to die.
He’s weaker.
I don’t hurt weak things. I protect them.
He tries to head-butt me.
I fake left, then slam a fist in his gut, and he chokes out, “Outside.” He coughs. “Let’s go outside…and finish this.”
I narrow the hottest glare on him and I’m thinking, how stupid can this shitbag be? If the cold doesn’t kill him, I will.
“Scared, Banks?” He tries to slam me back. I don’t budge, and I twist his shirt more around my fist and hoist him higher up the wall.
He writhes.
“I’ll kill you,” I warn him.
Fear strikes his eyes for a fleeting second, then arrogance causes his lips to rise, and he shakes his head strongly. “I have you beat.”
My eyeballs sear, unblinking, and my chest is on fire—and if I take him up on his offer, if we go “fight it out” in frostbitten temperature and waist-deep snow, I won’t be fighting Tony.
I’ll be fighting myself. To stop from killing him, and I want to be a man that Jane deserves.
Not a killer.
My hands are soaked in blood from war, and I haven’t taken a soul since.
“For a second, I thought you were Thatcher…”
I stiffen.
“But he’d never hesitate like you.” Tony laughs into a slight cough. “Looks like we know which one has the bigger balls.”
“Fuck you,” I growl between gritted teeth.
He tries to pry my hands off his shirt. “Let’s do this.”
My neck is tensed, and I release my grip. Breathing coarse breath through my nose.
Tony slides down, and he takes one step towards the front door—and I cold-cock him. Fist to jaw, and the blow is lights out.
He thumps to the floorboards.
Unconscious.
33
BANKS MORETTI
7 Extended Days Pretending to Be Thatcher
What a fuckin’ day to have a killer migraine. I can count on my hand the number of times Xander leaves the house and greets daylight in a given week. And of course today—the day I have a blistering, thunder-fucking headache—I’m outside.
My aviators need three times the tint to combat the sun because Lord knows sunlight and I are old enemies. That billion-years-old burning ball of roid-raging fire likes to ramp up my headache by a thousand degrees.
Good thing Xander has no clue I’m in pain, or he probably would’ve insisted we return home. The last course of action I want is for that kid to change his plans for my ass.
I scratch the scuff along my jaw, grown out more than usual. Gold horns rest against my black button-down, the sleeves rolled as heat radiates from an outdoor fireplace.
The patio to Easton Mulligan’s house—excuse me, mansion—is as bougie as every other landscaped backyard on this street: sheared hedges, stone-rimmed pools, lounge chairs worthy of grape-eating narcissists. Pretty sure some teenager around here has fallen into the deep-end staring at their own reflection.
Or snapping a selfie.
Easton’s mansion also includes heated patio stones. The Hale house in this same gated neighborhood doesn’t even have that. Snow soaks the grass, but the sitting area around the fireplace is dry.
Seated on the warm stone, Xander faces Easton around a glass coffee table, a board game and colorful pieces scattered between them.
But this isn’t Candy Land (unfortunately for me), it’s a three-person strategy game, and I was recruited as the “third” player.
We’re four hours in, and I’m still confused as hell.
Xander rolls the dice that has twelve sides and symbols and shit. “I’ll trade you a musket for a fire spell.” He’s looking at me.
“Sure, yeah.” I hand him a card.
“That’s a rocket flare,” Easton says.
Shit.
I shuffle through my thick deck and find another. “Here.”
Xander nods, then frowns, catching sight of another card in my hand. “Wait, you have the Empress of Tomorrow?”
“No fucking way.” Easton leans forward, elbows on the table. He’s a lanky, pale, dark-haired sixteen-year-old—no kidding, he looks like a vampire. Thing is, I bet he gets more sun and Vitamin C than Xander.
I scrunch my brows. “What’s the Empress of Tomorrow mean?”
Xander grins after a sip of Fizz. “With your position on the board and your two blocking spells, you just won the game, man.”
“Well, damn,” I say into a satisfied nod. Forget it, I fucking rock, and just then, a hammer pounds inside my temple. I bite down while Xander and Easton gather cards and game pieces.