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)
“Where are we going?”
“No.”
“Rocklin, please—” I shoot her in the thigh.
“Bitch,” she whispers, and I catch her as she falls, easing her to the ground.
I run through my dad’s car collection, choosing his Aston Martin, five years older and a lighter shade of blue than mine, and slip inside.
The fob is in the console, as always, and I start the engine, speeding toward the garage door in seconds. It’s motion censored, my leg bouncing over and over as I wait for it to open up a few more feet. I only need it halfway to get this baby out.
Few more inches …
I grip the wheel, and then legs come into view and my gut plummets.
Sai stands there with his arms crossed, glare heavy over his brow.
I could shoot him. I would just have to stick my hand out the door after I got it opened and shoot. He would slump to the ground, of course, and at about, I don’t know, two-hundred-sixty-five pounds of solid muscle, I might be able to drag his dead weight to the side enough to pull out.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns, and then he slides into the passenger seat, eyes hard on me. “I thought I told you, no more sneaking off until I—”
His brows crash, and then he looks down at his arm. “Goddammit, girl.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, hitting the button to close the door, but only after I drag his big-ass legs inside the car and shut it.
I need out of here.
I need freedom.
I know what I fucking need.
The drive is slightly different from my family’s estate, with a few more twists and turns, but my memory knows where to take me, even if my mind has yet to catch up.
When I was young, my sister and I would look around at the other kids in our world and pick out our future husbands the way our mother had told us hers was picked.
Her father wanted the strongest man for her, the biggest, baddest, and most brilliant one. The one no other could rival. That no one could reach, no matter how hard they tried. The most handsome and loving man, as she told it.
So Boston and I would look for that. Whatever we saw as “the best” little boy. The toughest or coolest or whatever other word we might have used back then.
She always picked bullies, while I always picked the quiet ones. She would make fun of me, saying how I would be kidnapped and she would be safe because she chose the strongest one, just like Mom. Weird shit for two little girls to fight about, who were more likely to get kidnapped, but that was our world. It was a normal threat we were all aware of, even if we didn’t fully understand what it meant outside of being taken from our parents. We would make our picks and then we’d fight about why we chose them, and then Mom would step in with a laugh.
She told hers and our dad’s story as a fairy tale, but as I got older, I realized it wasn’t. Their love was real, from what I know, but it didn’t begin that way.
It was a transaction between families, much like Enzo and my sister. A power play and one my mother refused to allow us to fall into. Having daughters in our world is tough, and the most common practice if you do birth a female heir is to find the man she’ll stand beside one day. Or, you know … stand behind.
She was adamant about never allowing such a thing. It had to be our choice. We had to choose if we wanted the man that was offering us his hand. It was the only demand she made of my father, and as I’ve heard from many over the years, one she made known widely. Men would come to our home with their children when we were only five years old, offering their fortunes for promises of the future, but my father turned them all away. As my mother told it, he prayed for daughters, but I think he just prayed—the devil maybe ’cause no one else would listen to a murderous man—my mother wouldn’t turn out infertile so he didn’t have to divorce or step out on her to get himself the heir he needed. Then once she got pregnant with us and it was learned that all the wives of the Greyson Union families were pregnant with girls, he was thrilled. Because, as always, fate shined on my father and proved, yet again, he was superior.
The other families were having girls … he was having two.
He wanted strong, independent girls. Girls who would rise up and take over and be the first of our kind.
A new wave. Generation setters.
He got one in me, but Boston was different.