Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
The husband.
The father of her children.
The savage king to this branch of the Synful Syndicate.
I once pledged to do whatever it took to keep her safe, and now, I’ll do whatever it takes to punish the one who made the mistake of stealing from our family.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Remy
Forgive and forget are not two things that I do.
Over the years – courtesy of Pet – I have learned to do the former for those closest to me.
Accept and even value what can come from growing due to the mistakes that have been made.
Forgive because humans are not perfect.
We are by nature imperfect beings, which is a weakness I – like all the other Daughters of Syn – never fail to exploit outside of my own home.
Outside of my family.
Family I never truly imagined myself having until it was literally bleeding in The Diamond for me.
Despite being married now, our earliest established dynamic remains the same in many ways.
In all business matters, I rule.
He serves.
I lead.
He follows.
Yet, here in the privacy of our home, when it comes to things that operate on this front, it’s a fucking brutal battle for who’s at the helm. Our staff not only has to take orders from us both but are more often than not caught in a messy crossfire or cyclone of confusion regarding what’s to be done.
They’re left contemplating what was once basic shit.
Inventory or deep disinfecting?
Floors or fans?
New bed linens or trash liners?
And then comes the question of when does something need to be finished.
Before the children are up in the morning or not until they are?
Only during school or naps or when they’re out of the house for lessons or playdates?
Only when they’re occupied in another part of the estate as to not interrupt them while they’re busy playing, busy living the most innocent portion of their life that they’re ever going to live?
And as if all of that uncertainty isn’t enough, rules regarding interpersonal relationships are continuously on the docket. The once agreed upon, I don’t care who you’re fucking as long as it doesn’t interfere with your duties, can no longer stand. Not because of the drama expected to ensue but because of how many of these fucks turn into real commitments that then have them wanting their own private spaces.
Their own homes.
Lives outside of the estate versus just the one they have in it.
Alone, I’d have no issue. I’d make an example out of one couple to establish my expectations and the rest would fall in line, yet with two leaders instead of just the one, everything is a fucking debate.
How much time can they have together off the proverbial clock?
Is it really wrong for them to want more out of life?
Hasn’t their loyalty to me, to us, earned them some sort of equity to embark on the occasional trip to some dive bar where they’ll get drunk on cheap tequila and slow grind to a Billy Joel cover?
It’s an argument because the points presented are fucking valid.
Because the agreement between us was to run certain things together.
See, when we’re united, the amount of power we exude is unstoppable, a fact proven every Night of Syn by the maxed-out membership and increased dividends our collaborated ideas have created, but when we’re divided, when we merely struggle to out stubborn the other one, I fear – a word I loathe – that our very foundation will crack.
And that’s when enemies strike.
They smell blood in the water – even the tiniest drop – and they begin to hunt.
I refuse to become anyone else’s prey simply because I couldn’t properly separate business issues from family ones, like my husband, who barged into my territory to revive an old argument regarding our daughter that it’s apparent, he’s forgotten we’ve already had.
Like I said.
Life with Yavok Kessler has taught me how to forgive; however, I never forget.
We’ll call it my best quality next to my patience.
“Net,” my husband bitterly bites, finger aggressively curling around the back of the gray chair on the other side of my at home office desk. “Slishkom molod!”
I’ve also become much, much more fluent in Russian, which is admittedly good for business.
And allowing him to speak it more in mixed company has given him a boost of confidence I thoroughly enjoy.
Typically, naked.
“Kat is not too young, aviomieheni.”
“Only six!”
“I was four.”
“Kirottu,” he grumbles under his breath.
My Finnish still needs a little more work; however, I’m quite well-versed when it comes to the cuss words as is the child we’re discussing.
Again.
He feels she’s not old enough to hear the type of language we use while I believe in hearing, learning, and understanding the power certain words can have.
Being a parent is a series of never-ending wars on multiple fronts, and honestly?
I’m winning.
It’s what Kesslers do.
“She need crayon, not weapon, Remy,” he insists on a slow headshake.
“She has crayons. Just yesterday she drew a giant blue fish on the wall next to my Manu portrait because she believes it was her artistic right to express herself in the estate!”
“Was parrotfish.”
“Still blue.” I lean back in my leather chair and swing one red covered pantleg over the other. “Still a fish.” My fingers fold firmly together in my lap. “And she’s still starting fencing lessons tomorrow.”