Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Legion Kane went home expecting a fight. Bullets flying, brothers dying, and the ending he deserved. What he got was silence.
Savannah Ashby stayed behind. Chained to a will and a trust, desperate for her fairy tale, struggling to right the world that’s been upside down since birth. What she got was indifference.
An angel and a demon, learning the same lesson from opposite sides of a fence line. The worst thing hell can do is let a man sit.
Every battle has a cost.
Every win, a price.
Thirty days of nothin’.
Dollar-store candles.
Borrowed time.
Date night.
IRON AND IVORY
One good night is all a man gets.
Hell can afford to be patient. It owns the clock
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
The elevator stops, the doors slide open and I'm… standin' in Savannah's fuckin' closet.
I somehow forgot that detail.
That little small detail.
Like a Legion, they are many too.
Because her scent is everywhere, and her clothes, and goodness. And it hurts, ya know. It fuckin' hurts that I'm literally standin' in the middle of my dream and… I gotta walk out.
The doors start to close, but I bat them aside and step through.
Keep walkin', Demon. You've come this far, gotta see it go down all the way to the end.
I don't look at the rest of the house as I leave. There's a tunnel vision surroundin' me. A blackness creepin' in from the sides. It's always been there, right on the edges, but now it's creepin'.
There's some house staff downstairs—they don't wave or say nothin', just stand there, mouths open, watching me as I find the foyer and let myself out.
The night air is cool now. Summer is over. And Montana winters… I sigh. I don't even wanna think about Montana winters to be honest. When the cold comes, and the bikes get put away, and the snow piles up like debt, and we're all stuck inside, drivin' fuckin' cars—
Shut up, Legion, just fuckin' shut up.
I spy Cash standin' over by the barn. He doesn't say nothin' either. Just squints his eyes at me like he's a threat. Or maybe just confused because I'm covered in dirt the color of blood.
I'm walkin' towards my bike when her shout comes from behind me.
"Legion!"
I don't turn, I can't turn.
Just keep walkin'.
But she's runnin'. I can hear her feet on the pavers. Then she's next to me, grabbin' my arm, spinnin' me around. "Legion, stop!"
I do. I can't help it. And I try not to look her in the eyes, but can't quite help that either. "I gotta go, Savannah. I can't be here."
She squeezes my arm tighter. "I'm coming with you."
I pull her off me, gettin' angry now. "No. You are stayin' right the fuck here." Cash has come over, like he's some protective big brother instead of a piece of shit rancher. I look him in the eyes. "You were right, Cash. Everything you said to me in the truck that day I got out. You were right."
"What?" Savannah is gettin' hysterical now. "What are you talkin' about?" She's turned her anger on Cash now. "What did you say to him?"
Cash shakes his head, he's ignorin' Savannah too. Lookin' right at me.
I lock eyes with him. "Do not let her follow me. Keep her away from me. Away from Badlands. Do not let Marcus fuckin' White anywhere near her either, but you keep her here, Cash." I point to the sacred Ashby ground. The safe Ashby ground. "You keep her here."
Then I turn, roughly pull my arm out of Savannah's grip, get on the bike, kick it, and… leave.
I hear her cryin', the desperation in her voice as she screams my name, but I don't look back.
I can't look back.
The highway opens up like a throat and I ride straight down into it.
Wind cuts through my t-shirt like it's nothin'. Summer died while I wasn't payin' attention. Happens like that in Montana—one day the sun's bakin' the clay and the next the air's got teeth. My fingers are already goin' numb on the grips but I don't slow down. Numb is fine. Numb is preferable to whatever the fuck else is happenin' inside my chest right now.
I keep seein' the book.
Eleanor's book.
Pages and pages of me.
Two years old in a dirt yard with no shoes.
Five years old sittin' on the porch of the trailer.
Eight years old with a black eye and a fish I caught in the Yellowstone, holdin' it up like it was a trophy, like I'd won somethin'.
Twelve.
Fourteen.
Sixteen with my first tattoo.
She documented my whole goddamn life. Every scar, every season, every version of me that got broke down and rebuilt into somethin' worse. And my own mother—my own mother—never once picked up a camera. Never once thought the boy standin' in front of her was worth rememberin'.
Eleanor did.
And I cried like a fuckin' child down there in that bunker, with Savannah sittin' right next to me, and I couldn't shut it off. Because somebody saw me. Somebody looked at me and said, That one. That one matters. Even if she was crazy. Even if her reasons were twisted up with my dead father, and her own obsessions, and whatever sick thing lived between the two of us that I still can't name.