Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
I’m not impressed by the infinity pool, the lavish staterooms, the massive saloons, or even the outdoor cinema. If I could spit on each one, I would. But I suspect there might be hidden cameras in every crevice of this vessel.
The sundeck has loungers and a bubbling Jacuzzi behind me. It overlooks the expansive main deck, where the couches, outdoor dining table, and pool reside. The Bennets, Thornhalls, and Konings politely mingle and chat with the illustrious host of the invitational. Barf. My brothers and I, the Smiths, have sequestered ourselves to the sundeck like rebels.
Really, we’re just trying to talk Nova down from his mood so he doesn’t act recklessly. He’s not like Oliver, Rocky, and me. He has a hard time pretending to be anything other than what he is.
Grumpy.
Protective.
Guarded.
Pissed the fuck off.
And right now, he rests his elbows on the steel railing, drilling daggers at Varrick from above.
To his credit, Varrick hasn’t glanced up here since the yacht left the harbor five minutes ago.
“I think we have his ears,” Oliver says like an absentminded thought as he casually sips his champagne.
Nova turns his glare on our brother. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Oliver says. “We have to share some traits with him. It’s genetics, man.”
Cupping my glass of iced seltzer water with lime, I squint harder at Varrick. He’s listening intently to Damian Bennet, carrying himself with casual stoicism. There’s no strict, uppity air about him. It’s as if he’d be as comfortable on this multimillion-dollar yacht as he would in a local dive bar.
It’s quiet, magnetizing confidence.
His dark brown hair tucks around his ears and brushes against the collar of his shirt. I find it hard to place his exact age, but he shares that in common with Addison, Everett, and Elizabeth. Able to blend between late thirties and early fifties. He has well-groomed facial hair—goatee and mustache—and he looks so…familiar. It hits me. “He looks like Christian Bale, right?”
Nova grimaces. “Jesus Christ.”
“I think he looks like Christian Bale over Jesus Christ.” Oliver slips me a grin.
I send a smile back.
Nova runs a hand over his buzzed head. “You both are going to kill me.” He turns his back to the main deck and leans against the railing to face us. “The Dark Knight Rises doesn’t come out for another two months, and it’s sufficiently ruined. Thank you for that.”
I touch a hand to my chest. “I didn’t say he was Batman.”
“Just the actor who plays Batman.”
Oliver glances around the sundeck. “You think he’s recording us? Going to learn his kids think he’s Batman?”
Nova grumbles another curse under his breath before he says, “I can’t believe I’m missing The Avengers for this shit.” And that is where his crappy mood originates. He had tickets tonight to the movie he’s been anticipating since it was announced. It’d been a source of pure joy for Nova’s comic-book-loving heart, and summering at Stonehaven snuffed it out.
We argue for three more minutes over whether we share any characteristics with Varrick—only concluding that Oliver and Nova might have his jawline. When I see our father slip away from Damian Bennet, I say, “He’s on the move.”
Sure enough, I watch him bypass a steward and aim his sights on the staircase to the sundeck. None of us had a chance to greet him when we boarded the boat, since we hightailed it to the top deck. A part of me hoped I could power through this voyage without interacting with him. Those chances just slipped down the drain.
“Don’t push him overboard,” Oliver coaches, his hand squeezing Nova’s shoulder in brotherly affection.
Nova crosses his arms. His olive-green shirt pulls tight around his muscular biceps. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
The three of us take a collective, readying breath as Varrick climbs the last stair, and we rotate slightly to face him, Nova never loosening his arms over his chest, Oliver bent casually while sipping his champagne, and me—one hand on my hip, the other fisting my glass.
My brain hums like static on a television, words lost to this strange, morbid reality. What do you say to your long-lost father, who killed your boyfriend’s entire family?
That question sinks in my gut when he approaches.
His leather loafers tap softly along the teak deck, hair blowing in the soft wind. That quiet confidence I observed from above feels more intimidating up close. As if he knows he could own us as easily as he owns the vessel beneath our feet.
Though, maybe I only feel that way knowing who he really is. What he’s capable of.
A warm, charismatic smile pulls his lips. “The Smiths,” he greets. His champagne flute dangles casually at his side like an afterthought. “What brings you up here? Attracted to the isolation or yearning to be different? Introverts or mavericks?”
Nova glowers at the question.
I struggle to form an adequate response that isn’t Fuck you. Truly I thought I’d have more decorum once we were face-to-face, but my blood is set to high heat.