Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
His breath is warm, goose bumps erupting across my body as he takes my hair in one hand. And just as a soft click sounds, he whispers, rough and final, “Mine.”
And then he storms away, but the velvety softness remains.
My hand darts up to my throat, and I whip around to face the mirror on the wall.
There’re a million things to discuss, a thousand questions on the tip of my tongue. Call me crazy, but I don’t even care what the answers are. At least not right now.
Right now, one thing and one thing only has my full attention.
And it’s a black band.
A delicate band nearly a half inch thick in size clasped around my throat, a small rose gold diamond sitting in the middle, a matching B dangling from its center. It’s a choker.
A collar.
It’s his claim.
Chapter 35
Rocklin
The whats and whys and whatevers we left in Greyson are put on the back burner; Bastian’s sole focus on the situation he faces now.
The sweet and perfect baby sister he spoke of is in town and he’s livid. I remember him telling me she lived with a family member far away, and apparently, that’s where she was supposed to stay until his controlling ass decided otherwise, but it seems baby sister had other ideas.
Apparently, the night we arrived, I was in a state of shock. Bastian washed, dressed, and tucked me into the hotel bed, and then he took off, none of which I remember.
He found his sister, midargument with one of his former bosses at the warehouses he used to run, that apparently, he doesn’t anymore … yet another thing we’ll need to talk about as it seems a lot has changed in his world.
I wasn’t even aware he left the Brayshaw family, but then again, how could I be? He’s effectively ignored me … or at least wanted me to believe he had.
We spent all of yesterday in near silence, me texting quietly with the girls and my sister while he continued to pace the small space, calling his sister every five minutes. When that didn’t work, we loaded up in his car, a new, customized car, by the way, that he completely pretends is a nonfactor compared to the last one I saw him with, so I don’t bother asking just yet. We made our way to some ancient-looking house, a group home he had mumbled, I’m guessing she’s now living in.
Bass knocked on the door no less than a handful of times, each attempt a failed one and irritating the kind yet stern woman who answered in the process. At some point, I passed out and when I woke at sunrise, the spot beside me was still empty, Bastian putting in overtime wearing down the soles of his new shoes.
Day two seemed like it would be no different; I should have known better by the angry anxiousness rolling off him. It didn’t take long for him to announce we were headed out once more, and I knew, without him confirming, we weren’t making our way to the sister this time around. No, Bastian wants the man responsible for bringing her here.
And what Bastian wants, Bastian gets.
My hand lifts, my touch trailing along the silky soft velvet locked tight around my throat, my newest accessory, and I gently grip the charm dangling dead center, fingertips tracing over the bold B.
In my peripheral, I see his head whip my way, his hands tightening along the black leather of the aftermarket steering wheel, and I know exactly where those hands wish they were.
I allow my lips to curve into a smirk but don’t look over, and his attention snaps back to the road.
Mad at me or not, I’m what he wants. Dare I say needs.
He hasn’t gotten to play with his new toy and he’s eager to.
For a split second, I wonder if I’m reading the rage in his perfect blue eyes wrong when we pull onto the property, where that same group home sits, but then he blows past it, kicking up dust and dirt as he flies through a slim opening between the large orchards.
We continue down the path, curving slightly at the end, and there it is. The Brayshaw mansion, his once bosses’ home. While modest when compared to Greyson Manor, much like everything is, the gorgeous custom mansion stretches wide across the space, but there’s no time to admire the giant flower garden that rivals my own as the second we make our way down the drive, a tall guy with deep-brown hair and a tattoo climbing along his neck is headed right for us, unfazed by the fact that Bastian is coming at him full speed.
My pulse starts to jump, wondering if we’re about to start a war with Calvin and the council because I’m not so sure Bastian isn’t fully set on creating a bloody Brayshaw pancake. That is a Brayshaw. There is no doubt about that. I might not have seen one in the flesh, but there’s a charge in the air and only eighty-five percent of it is rolling off the man seated beside me.