Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“I guess I have been a little bit.”
She’s silent for a moment. I lower to the bench right at the door to untie my trainers.
“You are allowed to lose yourself every now and then, Ivanya, especially in the name of love.”
I’m about to give the same answer I always do whenever someone brings up that I loved Asher, but words fail to leave me.
She continues. “I’m glad you are back.”
I sit up straight.
“Because there’s something waiting for you on your computer. Don’t fight it, don’t speak or say anything out loud. Just accept. Do you understand these words?”
I already know I’ll take on whatever I’m given, because despite the fact that Parker was supposed to be the end of my Widow life, I’m bored. The kill is boring without theatrics.
As soon as I’ve hung up and am in the house, I fire up my computer, tapping in my password. I never spend a lot of time up here like I used to, mainly because I’ve been on operation Parker, but if this past year has taught me anything, it’s to appreciate silence. Calmness. Pain.
The sound of my laptop being logged in pings, and after refilling my glass of juice, I make my way back, tapping on the keys. I half expect coordinates, as always, since that’s how Emeric serves our jobs, but a document opens on the screen, revealing David Jefferson, thirty-five years old, divorced twice, and a real estate mogul.
Why the hell would I want David? He seems… boringly basic. Nonna is tripping.
I tap accept and close my laptop. Anything is better than nothing, and if Nonna put him on my radar, it's for a reason.
My body drags itself upstairs. I need to sleep for a week.
Or a lifetime. Whichever comes first.
Chapter 27
Ivy
The Mediterranean sun bites into my shoulders as I step onto the weathered planks of the jetty, each footfall echoing across turquoise water. White fabric pools around my ankles.
My fingers tighten around the bouquet of peonies, their stems digging into my palm.
David stands at the end of the jetty, silhouetted against the fucking postcard-perfect horizon. Saint-Tropez sprawls behind him, all terracotta roofs and yacht money, the kind of place where people come to pretend they're living instead of just spending.
His tuxedo is tailored to perfect.
Huh. I wonder what this one might bring.
I keep walking.
Wood creaks beneath my feet, and somewhere to my left, a gull screams. The sound scrapes against my nerves, too loud, too alive for what this moment is supposed to be.
My heart doesn't race.
My palms don't sweat.
There's just this hollow space in my chest where something should be.
Three more steps.
His back remains to me. Why does his back remain on me? Why hasn't he turned yet? That's fucking bold. Maybe Nonna signed me up for that TV show, where you don't know what your bride or groom look like until they turn at the altar.
Two more steps.
What else did Nonna have on this dude? I can't even remember. He speaks five languages? I think? Fuck. I bet he's into long walks on the beach and prowling on young girls.
One more step.
Ocean blue melts into different color pallets as the world around him fades to nothing. Everything tilts. My stomach drops, and I'm pretty sure my heart is going to break free from my chest.
Impossible. It can't be him. He—
His back turns, and there, standing in flesh, is Asher fucking Jameson.
Asher
Past
9 years old
Music sticks to my skin like grease, thick and choking beneath the low-slung lights that pulse with the beat.
Behind their masks, the eyes don't lie. They watch me. Painted lips hiding foul words behind smiles, women throwing soft threats wide in the flushed heat of too much whiskey and cigarette smoke.
Nine years old, but no one here gives a fuck about something like age. I'd always looked older than I was. Heavy is the soul that wears the Devil’s suit, or whatever the fuck it was that my mother always went on about.
Salt air whips sharp in my nose as I grip the yacht's lower deck rail. Around me, nicotine stench curls, mixing with spilled liquor's sour tang. Atlas is nowhere to be seen—again. Whenever things get close to real, the bastard disappears. I should hunt him down and slap sense into his head, but deep down, I don't really want him to see the world the same way I do. To have the same responsibilities that I do.
He's younger by a few minutes, but sometimes it feels like years. Especially since whenever I need the bastard, he disappears like smoke. One day, that'll come in handy, but for right now, it's annoying.
The bass thumps harder, shaking the floorboards beneath my boots. Dancers stumble, weaving in blurred shadows that are wrapped in glitter and sweat.
I hate this place, but I hate the father who bred us to live in it more. He expects me to be the good son. The soldier. The one who carries the weight his frail ass shoulders can’t carry anymore.