Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
No one else in town keeps luxury cars like that, though now and then when the part-time retirees hit town they come in their high-end SUVs.
That’s definitely Arrendell style.
The front plates are also covered.
Damn.
Fucking please, I think. Please let him be in that car.
The car parks at the entrance to the clearing.
The headlights flash briefly, then cut out. I can’t quite see who’s behind the wheel, but the back passenger side door swings open.
My heart stops, expecting Xavier Arrendell to step out.
No luck.
It’s Eustace Jacobin and—Chief Bowden?
“Holy shit,” Talia curses softly at my side. “I still can’t believe it.” Her whisper sounds tiny.
Too bad I can.
I reach over to grip her wrist lightly, reassuringly, but say nothing.
Focused, I unfold my compact binoculars from my pocket and press them to my eyes, trying to peek inside the car before the back door closes.
There’s no one else in there.
Fuck.
I scan over their crew.
Looks like business as usual—hefty barrels of liquid chemicals, large pallets, and metal cisterns are rolled into another shed under halogen lights strung along cords and hooked to freestanding car batteries.
Everything unmarked, of course.
Nothing incriminating from a distance.
Even if I took photos of the bushels of coca plants, any small-time lawyer could pass it off as moonshine materials.
Eustace Jacobin and Chief Bowden have their heads together, talking while they watch the setup, but I can’t read their lips enough to work out what they’re saying.
Crap.
Looks like this is going to be another useless stakeout.
Nothing incriminating, not without revealing myself.
More than once, I’ve been tempted to steal a brick of their product, but that won’t do anything useful.
I wouldn’t be able to prove where the coke came from.
Too bad doing everything aboveboard with proper chains of evidence makes it damnably hard to catch the fucking rats.
Sighing, I lower the binoculars. “No Xavier. I—”
“Hang on a sec.” Talia grabs the binoculars.
Blinking, I watch as she strains forward, staring at something.
She’s tense now, her body rigid, and she jerks her head up, staring at me with wide eyes.
“It’s him, look!” she whispers, thrusting the binoculars back at me. “Joseph Peters. He’s the one driving the car.”
The car’s pulling away as we speak.
I’ve only got a few seconds before the view through the front windshield vanishes through the trees.
I snatch the binoculars and look, squinting at the driver’s seat. Sure enough, there’s a man. Trim, neat, with short brown hair and a tired look on his face.
“You’re sure? You’re positive it’s him?”
She nods quickly. “We’ve talked several times. I know his face.”
“Jackpot,” I whisper, lowering the binoculars with a grim realization. I’m about to blow Redhaven apart, and possibly Talia’s life, too.
“Micah? What now?”
“Now, I need to have a good, long talk with Mr. Peters.”
15
DARKER DAYS (TALIA)
Ican’t help wondering what I did wrong.
I watch Micah sleep, white as moonlight against the dark sheets. His glasses are on the nightstand.
I know now if he opens his eyes, I’ll be nothing but a blur of color until he fumbles the lenses onto his face. The lack of pigment in his eyes means he’s almost blind without assistance—and a little sensitive about it.
After the first time he told me while I watched him poke those little lenses into his eyes, I’ve never mentioned it again.
I’ve found myself avoiding a lot of things lately.
His bed is enormous and increasingly familiar. I’ve spent almost every night here since our last stakeout in the woods.
I thought we were starting something, I guess.
Maybe I was just being naïve.
This starry-eyed girl who’s never been in love before.
So wrapped up in my fantasies that I didn’t realize he wasn’t really there with me, thinking about the future.
Still, as long as I’m naked with Micah’s teeth on my skin and his cock inside me, there’s no shortage of intimacy.
Raw, vulnerable, he lets me see this wild thing inside him, lets me see how there’s some wounded part of him that needs to take it out on someone else.
It doesn’t scare me.
Not at all.
It feels divine.
The burn of his teeth, the feeling of being willingly powerless while this beast devours my body, mind, and soul. It really is like having my own vampire, ready to play the darkest fantasy.
But as soon as we’re sweaty and tangled up and done, he goes quiet.
Yes, he holds me close, kissing my hair and checking to make sure he hasn’t done any lasting damage. Sometimes, he pulls me into a steaming shower and cleans me with a reverent touch.
He caresses me with a tenderness that makes me feel cherished.
Loved.
Like he’ll leave the hottest bruises on my skin just to kiss them later, growling that he’ll always keep me safe.
But he just won’t talk to me.
He locks up, and when I try to talk to him, he says he’s tired.
I’m not buying it.
Because more than once, I’ve woken up and caught him pacing, brooding around the house with a tumbler of whiskey. Even Rolf watches him, occasionally glancing at me like he knows I’m awake and he wants me to fix this.