Total pages in book: 193
Estimated words: 184001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 920(@200wpm)___ 736(@250wpm)___ 613(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 184001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 920(@200wpm)___ 736(@250wpm)___ 613(@300wpm)
I take the time to look around.
There’s a formal dining room immediately to my left with a crystal chandelier above the long table that only makes me think of the antler one hanging above the table at home. The one Khalil had carved with his bare, capable hands. I huddle a little closer to his strong back and breathe in his cardamom scent with strong notes of mint.
The ceilings become higher the farther we travel inside the house until we reach the cavernous living room. I immediately drift over to the huge windows when I spot the mountains framed by the glass like a painting in a frame.
Unwilling to leave my side for even a moment, Khalil shadows me over to the window and stands close behind me, lending me his heat and his strength as he places his hands on my shoulders. I close my eyes and lean against him as he massages the tension in my muscles.
Just as I start to relax and center myself, my uncle’s voice penetrates the fog and I’m tense again.
“Ah, Sheriff,” Uncle Mars greets without an ounce of concern for why the sheriff called on him out of the blue. It’s the voice of a man who’s used to having his will enforced. Already, the crushing weight of his presence is heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe. “I wasn’t expecting you. How can I help?”
“Yes, well, we had an unexpected development regarding your niece that I thought you might want to know.”
Khalil’s hands tighten on my shoulders. Neither of us move from the window, but I doubt my uncle has missed our presence. Khalil is blocking me from view, but the massive man would be hard to miss by anyone, including someone as egocentric as Marston George.
“Is that right?” my uncle asks in a tone that doesn’t sound like someone concerned. Even in death, I’m still causing him problems. I don’t realize I’m smiling until I catch my fiendish grin in the reflection of the window. “Well, what have you found? Has her body been recovered?”
The sheriff stammers and stumbles for a response.
Meanwhile, I grab that powerful feeling of being a thorn in my uncle’s side by the reins and decide to harness it by stepping out from the protective shield of Khalil’s body.
Uncle Mar’s golden-brown skin becomes white as a sheet when he sees me. We share the same complexion and are often mistaken for being biracial by people who don’t understand that Black folks come in fifty-’leven shades. There have been many occasions—like forcing me to dye my hair blond—that my uncle has used our proximity to whiteness to get ahead, and his colorist views are just one of the many reasons I have to fight back the sneer that wants to take over my faux-calm expression.
While I’m fighting to not react at all, he blinks as if he can’t believe his eyes.
I’m sure I look like a stranger to him, but I’ve never felt more like me. My natural hair is longer, unkempt, and splitting at the ends. The gold in my curls that’s become my trademark has become dull and is receding by the day, giving way to the dark brown that I inherited from my mother.
I’m not dressed in one of those ridiculous costumes that he insists makes millions of girls across the globe want to be me while at the same time appearing desirable to men yet unapproachable.
Whatever that means.
My face is also clear of makeup, but it was never something he allowed me to overindulge in once our PR team caught wind of my natural beauty being praised in the media.
I don’t look like the superstar he created.
Instead, it’s just me. Daughter to Jamila and Logan George. Wolf. Songbird. The sun in Seth’s world. Goldilocks. Princess. Survivor.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Uncle Mars.” Fitting since I’m supposed to be dead.
“Aurelia?”
“In the flesh. Surprised?”
“I don’t understand,” he says after struggling to recover. The shock is fake. The horror that I’m alive and dared to show myself to him is very much real. “How is this possible?”
“Well, there was a tree. My guess is it broke my fall from the fireball that was once my plane and by the grace of God or the devil’s amusement, I didn’t die from the freezing cold or get torn apart by wolves like Cassie.”
“What an ordeal you must have had,” he dryly replies with a strained smile. “Thankfully, all of that is behind you now. You’re safe. You’re alive.” More pointedly, he adds, with his gaze flickering toward the silent, fuming man next to me, “You must be eager to get home.”
“Eh,” I say with a shrug. Khalil grumbles unhappily when I move away to slowly circle the room, giving myself a tour. The living room looks straight out of a home catalog. There’s no personal touch to be found anywhere. “Not really.”