Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
While she's with the doctor, I read the book.
No matter what the genre, there's no denying the fact that this book is intriguing enough to get my attention. The writing’s fucking good, and it pulls me right into the story.
I'm so lost in the story, that I forget for a moment where I am. My mind is racing with possibilities about who this author could be.
I’m starting to form a few theories, though.
There's a scene in the kitchen, and the kitchen is just like ours at home. How would anyone who didn't live in our house know exactly how we put the copper pans on the wall? Who starts the fire in the hearth of a morning? How we like our cinnamon scones with a trace of cardamom?
The details are too perfect. I have to conclude that the person who's written these books lives in our house. I can't imagine how a visitor would know anything, not in the detailed way it's written in these books.
And then, for the very first time, I entertain a new thought. Does the writer want us to know that he or she is writing about us? Have they written these books with such intricate detail that they want us to know that we're not as anonymous as we want to be?
Are these books an intentional threat to us?
Why would anyone choose a romance novel instead of confronting us head on?
But then I remember the conversation Fran and I just had in the car, how I was telling her that our enemies are often not punished immediately. That we like them wondering, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Could it be that someone's using our own methods on us?
Could it be that someone’s setting us up?
What if these books are written by one of our enemies?
It’s the first time I’ve considered this.
The chapter I'm reading now is a detailed account of the heroine’s fears of an arranged marriage. She's a virgin and wonders what it would be like to consummate her marriage with a stranger. I don't bloody blame her. I would wonder the same thing.
What if this was written by an enemy? Perhaps there's a spy among us, someone who knows more than we think they do. Someone paid by an enemy.
Or what if it’s someone who’s innocent, who never suspected the books would be as popular as they are?
The question is, why would an enemy shed such a positive light on us? My sister’s right, these men are superheroes. I couldn't even fill the shoes of the characters in these books. They're smart, strong, witty. Intelligent, educated, and wealthy as fuck.
Maybe this is what a woman who reads romance novels expects?
In the book I’m reading now, the arranged marriage is set to happen the next day, the consummation within a fortnight. And my mind begins to wander.
I have an opportunity to accept an arranged marriage myself. Leith has hinted at forming an alliance with our enemies, nothing uncommon among my brothers of the Clan.
Ever since Mac married Bryn, we've had peace with our enemies in Inverness. We're hardly friendly, and not much has come out of this truce except the certainty that the Aitkens Clan will not attack us. But that's no small feat, especially not when we're trying to form alliances in foreign countries…
I keep reading, and now I'm not focusing on the book anymore, I'm deep in the mind of the heroine who's afraid of the arranged marriage before her. She actually isn't the woman they think she is, just mistaken for her, but she knows that she doesn't have much choice.
My sisters may face the same fate someday.
I've been mentally prepared for something like that for over a decade.
I think of my mom's arranged marriage to my father, Maeve in Ireland and her marriage to her now deceased husband.
I go back to the story, but it’s brought up so many concerns I can hardly fucking concentrate.
"Right, then." Fran comes storming out of the doctor’s office with her eyes flashing and her lips in a thin line. Not sure what crawled up her arse.
"You don't look too thrilled."
She shakes her head. “I'm fucking pissed."
“Why?”
"The doctor said I'm not allowed to go to work. I'm not allowed to lift anything. I'm not allowed to drive, and practically not allowed to do anything other than eat some food and lie on my back on the fucking couch.”
I think for a minute before I reply.
“Why’d he give such orders?”
“Head trauma, can’t risk things, but thankfully the arm is only sprained. Nothing broken.” She huffs out a breath. “Whatever,” she mutters, then under her breath, “not like I’m going to actually listen to him.”
I growl low, angered that she’s doing this, not even half a foot out of the doctor’s office and already considering defying orders. Of fucking course.