Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
He didn’t flinch. “They were never supposed to take Claire. Just Beatrice.”
I lowered the gun, but it remained hot in my fingers.
“I may be heartless, but I’m not that heartless.”
I was too angry to speak. All I could do was breathe. Feel my nostrils flare with every breath. I could feel the slight tremors in my body, the shakes before the earthquake. “You took the mother of my child?”
“Don’t act like you give a shit about her.”
“She’s Claire’s mother!”
“And I knew that would be enough reason. Because if it were anyone else, you wouldn’t give a damn. And in the end, what does it really matter? Beatrice walked right out of your lives without looking back. She doesn’t miss you, and you don’t miss her.”
“She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”
“And that was never supposed to happen. Forneus crossed me. He took Claire when he wasn’t supposed to, and then he lied about having her when we went to retrieve her. The plan went to shit.”
I shook my head. “I know you’re a piece of shit, but this…this is low…even for you.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I wouldn’t lie to you—”
“You’ve done nothing but lie to me!” My fist slammed into his face, making him stumble back and lose his footing for a brief second. “You did all of this? Just to get me back? Because you fucked Carlyle’s wife and couldn’t get your shit together?”
The knife still protruded from his stomach, his shirt soaked with blood.
“All of this…because of you.” I squeezed the handle of the gun, my finger inching closer to the trigger to put him down for good. “My daughter was in that horrible place…because of you. Beatrice is permanently scarred…because of you. Forneus is stalking me…because—”
“That one’s all on you. And the reason all of this happened is because of you.” He stepped closer to me, his nose bloody like his stomach. “You walked away from me. You abandoned me. You abandoned all of us. And, what? You thought that would be the end of it? You were all I had, Benton. You were the one guy that I trusted to watch my back. You were the only person in my circle. We weren’t friends. We weren’t associates. We were fucking brothers.” Spit flew out of his mouth as his voice rose. “And you turned your back…and just left me there. You had Claire, and she became your family because of blood…but I thought we were family.”
All I could do was shake my head. “You don’t have children. You don’t understand—”
“And you weren’t supposed to have children, but you fucking did it anyway.”
I would never issue an apology—not now or ever.
Bartholomew stared me down, his face slowly becoming paler and paler as the blood dripped to his feet. The rage was in his eyes, tight in the cords in his neck. “I’m sorry about Claire. Truly. That was never supposed to happen, and you know that I would never fuck with that. But the rest of it…I’m not sorry. Because you’re here—where you’re supposed to be. I don’t just need you, Benton. I…fucking miss you.”
I stepped away and stuffed the gun into the back of my jeans. “I never want to see you again…if you live.”
Seventeen
Constance
I’d texted him several times—no response.
Benton, are you okay?
It was noon, and he still wasn’t home.
I paced the apartment, too erratic to sit still or take a nap to pass the time. The house was dead silent because I didn’t have the TV on. The quiet felt like surround sound I could actually hear.
Benton?
He told me to only call for emergencies and text for everything else. But I was tempted to make the call, just to know that he was okay, that he would be home in an hour or two. The wait was agonizing, and I realized I couldn’t do this forever. I could wait up for him every morning, wondering if he was still alive.
He texted me back. Baby, I’ll be home in fifteen minutes.
The gasp I released was so loud it sounded more like a scream. “Oh, thank god…”
In exactly fifteen minutes, he came home, and I could tell he was in a bad mood. It wasn’t just the blood on his shirt—but the look in his eyes.
“Are you hurt?” I rushed to him, my hands flattening on his stomach.
He pushed my hands away. “It’s not mine.” He headed straight for the kitchen and raided the fridge. He pulled out the plate I’d made for him and threw it in the microwave for a minute or two.
I just stood there and waited for an explanation.
He didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk because he wouldn’t even look at me.
He leaned against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, the microwave lit up as it heated his food. The next few minutes went by that way, and I assumed he was too hungry for conversation, so I let it stay quiet.