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)
Okay, honestly, it’s exactly what I meant, but I wasn’t aiming to insult him; I don’t want to insult him. I’m making the situation clear because I must. Things are different here.
A gap in security is a potential loss of life. Probably mine.
Unless it was my father’s doing?
Did he lower security here too, as another fake show of weakness?
No. He wouldn’t put me at real risk like that.
Right?
“That right?” he rasps, his expression clear as he pops up on his elbow, hand wrapping around my wrist and pressing at my pressure point. The bloody blade falls beside us and he drags his fingers higher until they link with mine from behind.
“You peel their nails from their fingertips?” He drags my hand across his left pec, right over a burning phoenix, a small groove hidden under it. “Cut the tips off their nipples?” My skin meets a harsh dark line, a jagged heartbeat along his shoulder blade, a long slash pebbled against my touch. “Maybe a tongue?” We’re tracing his throat now, random size welt-like scars decorated with the Eye of Horus. “A limb?”
We trail his breastbone, and I tear my hand away, glaring at him. “I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.” His tone is impatient, disapproving. Bastian quickly flips me, crawling over me and stretching high on all fours above me, the blood from the new cut on his skin threatening to drip onto me. “Your security is airtight. If it wasn’t, I would be the first to fucking say it, got me?” he hisses, continuing without a breath. “I told you. You. Are. Mine. I might seem tame to you but don’t fucking test me, baby, ’cause I’m on a leash right now, same as you. The difference is mine can be cut, and I’ll let you in on a little secret, my little secret keeper. I’ve already got the knife picked out.” His eyes flash. “But know this. No one will keep me away. I’m invisible. Told you that too. No one sees me coming until it’s too late. Not even you.”
He jumps up, his shit in his hands, my new gun in the other, back flexing in all its tattooed glory as he walks straight out my bedroom door.
“What does that even mean?”
His head snaps over his shoulder, eyes cold and daring. “Fuck around and find out.”
And then he’s gone.
I throw myself back on the bed, a low growl leaving me as I punch my fist against the mattress. My phone vibrates a moment later and I pick it up, quicker than I’d like to admit, ready to read whatever words he decided to send, but it’s not from him.
It’s from Oliver.
“What the hell does he want?”
I open the thread, finding three messages rather than one.
Oliver Henshaw: I can’t stop thinking about the dress you wore tonight.
Oliver: Red looks good on you, and it would look better with me on your arm, so be sure to keep your little tattooed toy away from now on, sweet Rocklin.
Oliver Henshaw: I want you in the same color at the gala.
“Ugh.” My face scrunches in disgust and I toss my phone to the side. “Is he fucking serious?”
He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks I’ll be going with him, and if my dad made such a promise, that mistake is on him.
There is no way in hell I will be putting myself on his arm on a night like that. Everyone who is anyone in our world will be there, every member of the dynasty and all allied gangs and Mafia families.
And to boldly speak about Bastian like that? I should have his fucking tongue for even thinking he could drop threats on me. His attempt at subtle playfulness was a huge failure.
That was no less than a warning from a boy afraid of his own father.
Why Oliver Henshaw assumes he has a chance with me and that he’s somehow an exception to the rules here, I don’t know, but I will find out.
Chapter 20
Rocklin
Ms. Milano’s soft knock has me turning from the gaping window with an audible sigh just as Bronx invites her in.
She smiles, her wrinkles deepening as she does, a true gentleness in her gaze not many in this world hold—probably because she’s on the outside of it. “Students have arrived.”
“Thank you, Ms. Milano.” Delta floats to her feet, facing me, worry in her gaze as it meets mine, though she doesn’t pry, being I’ve yet to offer my thoughts to my best friends. “Ready?”
“Always,” I deadpan, tracing my fingers along the folded cashmere around my neck as I round the desk, following the girls out the door.
Today is one of the few I dread at Greyson Elite when we’re forced to open our doors for potential students, only one or two of them having the slightest chance of securing a spot in a few short months when invitations go out. It’s yet another way to appease the masses and curb the minds of those curious about the private academy tucked away at the highest peak of the valley hills.