Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
About who killed Roxy.
About who framed Constantine.
And why.
“She needs to freshen up,” my mother sniffs. “Let her go. Clare, dear, go wash your hands and face and brush your hair.” Like I’m five.
I step away from my father and turn to my mother. “I’m fine, Mother. Thanks for asking. No, I don’t believe I need to see a doctor. It was indeed a traumatic situation, but imagine, I actually survived it. All on my own. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of some food and water.”
Before she can reply, I head to the kitchen. I hear her talking to my father in a hushed tone. “Just give her time,” he says, but I feel both of them watching me like I’m a bomb about to go off… and maybe I am.
I miss Constantine.
I miss everything about him—his ferociousness and fearlessness. His fierce dedication to those in his inner circle—his brotherhood, his family… and, at times… me.
I will vindicate him.
As I make my way to the kitchen, it amuses me to imagine their reaction if I stepped into this room holding Constantine’s arm. His large, imposing frame would barely fit through that doorway. My mother has “opinions” about men with tattoos, and my father, of course, would not get past the fact that he’s a criminal.
Constantine and I live in two different worlds. Two such very, very different worlds.
That doesn’t mean we don’t belong together. Sometimes, when two forces of nature collide… they make something new.
Something beautiful.
I decide right then and there. I will fight for him. I will fight for us.
Certain my parents haven’t followed me, I grab a sandwich and bottle of water from the kitchen. Thankfully, it’s the kitchen staff’s day off, so I can wander around without repercussion—no fearful gazes or prying questions. I need answers, and I need to find a way to my dad’s laptop.
My parents are having a heated discussion in the living room when I return. My father stands, his face flushed.
“Were you or were you not taken by that man in prison, Clare?” he asks, his eyes bulging dangerously with the look he gets that I know all too well, the warning sign that he’s going to explode.
“Of course I was. You saw the news.” I look away, not wanting to talk to him. Not wanting to even look at him. I hate referring to the only man I’ve ever cared about as “that man.”
After a beat, I force myself to look back because I have questions that he can answer, but before I do, I feign that I’m weaker than I appear. I place my hand on my forehead and sigh. “I have a headache. Why are you questioning me?”
“I’m not the one who questioned it,” he says with an angry glare at my mother.
My mother leaps to her feat, flushing red. “I never said she lied!”
“You wondered why she was there to begin with. You implied it was her own damn fault.”
She doesn’t deny this. A sick, twisted feeling takes root in the pit of my stomach. I shouldn’t be surprised. Such behavior is terribly consistent for my mother. But what if I had been abused and hurt? Would I have to defend my choices even then?
My mother turns to me. “Why were you there?”
“At the prison?” I ask, pulse racing. I don’t want to answer her questions. I don’t want her to see through anything.
She rolls her eyes. “Of course the prison. Where else?”
I decide she doesn’t deserve my answer. I’m a full-grown woman who’s been independent of her parents for years. They aren’t owed the full reasoning.
“You know, I don’t believe I owe you an explanation. I was taken by a convict. I was used as a means to an end. For all you know I’ve been violated.”
I can still feel his hands on my hips. His mouth on mine. Still feel his powerful fingers digging into my thighs, anchoring him in place before he—
“Clare,” my mother says with a gasp, her eyes widening at the very thought of her precious daughter being violated by a prisoner.
“Mother,” I say in the same offended whisper. “You didn’t even ask me if I was hurt. You don’t even care.” I don’t have to work very hard at infusing pain into my tone before I leave. I don’t have to work very hard to make tears come to my eyes, nor to swipe them away angrily as I start toward the guest room.
“Clare, you get back here.”
I ignore her. This is part of my plan. Let them think I’m injured, delicate, and they’ll give me wide berth. Be difficult, and they won’t want to put a spotlight on me.
My mind reels, trying to grasp the most effective way to get to my father’s computer. To find out what I need. To vindicate Constantine.