Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Did you fuck Marcus Rinaldi?” I ask. I don’t know why she wouldn’t have. She was his fiancée. It makes sense.
She turns around and I see a bottle of whiskey in her left hand. The one I keep up here. I don’t comment but I am surprised. Although it seemed like she wanted some downstairs.
“It’s really pretty here,” she says and brings the bottle to her lips as she takes a step. She falters when she does but catches herself on the back of the chair. “Considering.”
“What are you doing?”
She raises her eyebrows.
I gesture to the bottle.
“Preparing.”
“Preparing?”
Her eyes fall to my chest. She points a finger at it, arm not quite steady. She’s not quite steady on her feet.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
I look down, wipe away the smear of blood.
She shifts her gaze up to mine and drinks another sip, dropping down on the edge of the bed like she can’t stand anymore.
“Yep, preparing,” she says, and I’ve almost forgotten that I asked. “I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much. Also, I just don’t want to remember. So, if you don’t mind,” she says, holding up the same finger she used to point at me as if to say ‘hold on’. She glugs down a couple more swallows that look almost painful from here. “I’m almost done.”
“Wrong. You’re done now,” I say, closing my hand over the neck of the bottle.
She doesn’t fight me when I take it. Mostly because I don’t think she can. She’s drunk about half a bottle and judging from the size of her, that’s about half a bottle too much.
“Christ,” I mutter, looking for the cork, finding it on the floor by the window. “Am I going to have to lock up the liquor?”
“Does that mean I’ll be around long enough for you to have to do that?”
“Is that what you’re afraid of?” I ask, corking the bottle and setting it on the table before turning to her.
Her face falls a little, her shoulders slumping forward. She rubs the heels of her hands over her eyes. But when she looks up at me, they’re bright again like she has a new idea.
“Do you know the story of Jacob the Liar?” she slurs her words.
“You’re drunk, Scarlett.”
“First, he tricked his brother.” There’s that finger again, making some drunken point. “Then his father. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I know the story. What does that have to do with anything?”
“My uncle is a liar. Among other things. He can’t help himself. It’s in his name. You can’t escape your name.”
I step closer, narrow my eyes.
“Are you always so philosophical when you’re drunk?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Besides, there’s no such thing as destiny. We have free choice. People choose what they are.”
“You mean who they are.”
“I mean what they are.”
She considers for a moment before standing and coming up to me to push her finger into the middle of my chest.
“Do you know the man you have aligned yourself with, Cristiano Grigori? Do you have any idea what he is?”
One knee gives out and I catch her elbow to steady her. I open my mouth to tell her I know exactly what her uncle is, but she shifts her gaze, distracted by the little bit of red on her finger. She looks from her finger to the smear of blood on my chest, then at the tattoos, at the reddened skin. She peers closer, wipes her finger over the name of her brother. Then, she scratches her nails across the tattoos, across that raw skin.
“Fuck!” I grab her wrist. “Like I said, you’re drunk.”
She looks up at me. “Did you just do this? Is that what you were doing? Crossing off my brothers’ names?”
I nod.
She shifts her gaze to some of the others. The dozen or so that also have lines running through them. The few that haven’t yet met their fate. Then she does something completely unexpected. She lays her cheek on my chest, soft and warm, her hair tickling my chin. She slides it over the tattoos.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, releasing her wrist.
She draws back.
I see the smear of blood on her cheek and she looks as confused as I feel. But then she touches Noah’s name. When she turns those burnt-sugar eyes up to mine, they’re wet. She sighs deeply, backing up. I think she means to sit on the edge of the bed but miscalculates and slips off the sheets to end up on the floor.
I shake my head. “No more whiskey for you, Fury.”
“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” she asks me, eyes wide when she turns them up to me. “What you’re doing now, it’s a game and when you’re finished playing, you’ll kill us. Or have my uncle do it.” She makes a gun out of her hand, points at her own head and shoots. “Pow. Dead.” She touches her cheek, smears tears into the blood. “He’s just a kid, you know.” She shrugs a shoulder then lays down on the floor at the foot of the bed and squints her eyes to look up at me.