Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
The Daily Londoner had an entire team of journalists dedicated to following every royal’s move. There was no way this would be kept a secret.
“It’s not the end of this discussion,” my mother informed me, businesslike. “When is this thing due?”
“I believe she is about six or seven weeks along, so this thing will not be here for a while.”
“That’s very early to know you are pregnant. Almost like she planned the whole thing,” my mother mused.
I did not tell her that Emmabelle and I had both agreed to have this child. Though I loved my mother, it was none of her business.
“Not everyone is as cunning as the Whitehalls, Mother.”
I hung up the phone. Taking a bite of my sandwich, I chewed without tasting it.
Whatever my mother’s next move was, I knew I would meet it head-on.
“Are you going to murder me?” My fencing partner, Bruno, asked the next day while I nearly pierced his brain through his mask. A corps-a-corps, bodily contact between two fencers, was illegal in fencing. It was the third time I did it. “What’s bothering you?” Bruno asked through his stainless-steel mask.
Not gracing his question with an answer, I went on the attack again, thinking about my conversation with my mother, about the radio silence coming from Belle.
Fencing was physical chess. It required a level of intellectuality, not just quick limbs and fast instincts. That’s why it was my favorite sport. I lunged forward, while Bruno became more guarded, backing away from the strip.
“Devon.” He stumbled out of the mat, ripping the mask from his head. His face was sweaty, his eyes wide. “Devon, stop!”
It was only after he begged me to stop that I realized I had almost killed him. That he was small and scared, tucked into a corner of the room, his sabre sword down, his body shaking.
“You’re going through something, man. You need to get your shit together.”
With that, he stormed off. I peeled my mask off, frowning.
My shite was never together, you fool.
From there, I went to Sam’s club.
Not to be confused with the retail warehouse chain store. My mate Sam Brennan’s establishment, Badlands, was home to the best gambling tables, whiskey, and cocaine.
The club itself wasn’t underground but instead open to the general public. The poker rooms in the back, however, were carefully curated.
I frequented those rooms as much as I could. At least three times a week. Sometimes more.
Tucked into one of the snug gambling rooms, Sam, Hunter, Cillian, and I played a game of cards around a table covered with green felt. A cloud of cigar smoke hovered over our heads. An assortment of half-empty glasses of brandy and whiskey bracketed our elbows.
“Congrats on knocking up the ultimate femme fatale.” Hunter flashed me his Colgate smile behind his hand of cards. We were playing Rummy, which did nothing to help my already growing suspicion I was, indeed, an old fart in Sweven’s eyes.
A sardonic smirk found my lips. “It was no trouble at all.”
“Trouble? No. Weird? Yes. I didn’t think y’all were still bumping uglies,” Hunter mused.
I had no interest whatsoever in discussing Emmabelle Penrose. Not with Cillian and Hunter—two people whom I still considered clients—and Sam Brennan, whom despite his persistent pleas, I did not agree to take as a client.
“Was it accidental?” Cillian probed, sucking on his cigar and sending me a chillingly hostile gaze. Not because something happened. That was simply his usual expression. The only time he looked remotely content was when he was with his wife and children. Any other time, you could mistake him for a serial killer in the mood to practice his favorite hobby.
“That’s none of your business,” I said cheerfully, sliding a new card off the pile in the middle of the table.
“I’m sure it was an accident. No one is dumb enough to willingly tie their future to that she-wolf.” Sam took a pull of his Guinness, scanning the room with boredom.
“Last I checked, your wife married a man with enough blood on his hands to fill the Mystic River. What does it say about her IQ?” I quirked an eyebrow.
“It means her IQ is divine, like the rest of her. Yours, however, is questionable at best. Knocking my wife to my face is a great way to find yourself six feet under.”
“Control those feelings, son. They could be a tremendous liability.” I patted his hand patronizingly, my tone as blank as my expression. He kept forgetting I wasn’t one of his fanboys. All eyes turned to me curiously.
“Do you have a crush on that wild child?” Hunter gave me a pitiful look. “Damn, Dev. You never defend anyone unless there’s a 100k retainer involved.”
Cillian smirked. “He had a good run.”
“A short one too, if he continues talking to me like that.” Sam chewed on his electric cigarette dispassionately.