Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I grab the handheld showerhead and aim it over my shoulder, directly at his infuriating face.
Water drenches his beard, his braids, and the entire front of his body. He throws back his head and roars with laughter, widening his mouth, sticking out his tongue, and shaking his face in the spray like a wild dog.
Turning off the water, I reach for a towel. “You can put lipstick on a yeti, and he’ll still piss in snowbanks and eat your cat.”
That only makes the yeti laugh harder.
“Get out, you idiot.”
“Fine, fine.” He backs away, still grinning obnoxiously. “But you owe us a conversation. I’m not leaving without it.”
“I need some privacy first.”
“Since when?” He fixes me with an intense glare, and just like that, Playful Leo has left the chat. “I know about the scars.”
Fuck.
Fuck him, fuck the scars, and fuck the demon who cut them into me.
“Not today, Sunshine.” I shoulder past him and pull open the closet, grabbing clothes that match my mood.
A pair of electric blue jeans patterned with purple lightning bolts, a loose white shirt with ragged edges, and a glittery black cardigan that swallows me whole.
“Dove’s stepbrother is Jag Rath.” I tug on knee-high rain boots painted with daisies, knowing they’ll withstand the soggy misery of Sitka. “I broke his wrist last night. On purpose.”
“Start from the beginning.” He perches on the bed.
While brushing my teeth and finger-raking my hair, I tell him everything. The confrontation in the tattoo parlor, the brawl in the alley, and every nibble of information I pried from Dove.
“She’s not big on words.” I shove on my beanie. “One of my favorite things about her. But I need to understand her relationship with Jag if I’m gonna figure out how the hell to help.”
“Sounds like she doesn’t want your help.”
“Yeah, she’s doing that stubborn I can fix it myself routine. Full-blown mechanic girl energy. She’ll come around.”
“Before or after her stepbrother comes around and hurts her?”
“He’ll have to go through me.” I shrug on my leather jacket and head out the door. “In the meantime, double up on Frankie’s security.”
“Already done.”
He follows me back to the main house, and I dash into the kitchen, stuffing two apples and a handful of granola bars into my pockets.
Frankie stands at the island, coffee mug in one hand and phone in the other. Dressed in her scrubs with her fiery red hair tied back in a high ponytail, she looks like she’s ready to tackle the world. Or stitch up its wounds.
She glances up, eyebrows raised in question. Then her gaze flicks to Leo behind me. “Why are you wet?”
“Why aren’t you?” Grinning like a berserker, he crosses the kitchen in two long strides, lifts her off her feet, and smashes her against his soaked clothes.
With a shriek, she pounds her fists against his back, which only encourages him to grind her face into his wet shirt.
Ah, yes. Nothing says I love you like waterboarding your soul mate before breakfast.
I leave them to their foreplay and sprint out the door toward the dock.
The scent of damp earth and brine awakens my lungs as I hurry down the winding path. A thin veil of fog drapes over the water, evaporating slowly as the morning sun climbs higher.
And there she is, standing boldly against the backdrop of a glittering sea and hazy mountains.
Dove’s silhouette is fragile yet fiercely resilient. The kind of fragile that fools people right before she punches them in the throat.
She’s built like poetry and barbed wire. Delicate enough to catch the light. Sharp enough to leave me bleeding.
But Leo wasn’t exaggerating.
Her hair is no longer blonde. Bright electric blue strands shine vividly in the sunlight, twisted into two messy buns atop her head.
Now that is a choice.
One I wholeheartedly approve.
She notices me, her gaze defiant and challenging. Same unforgettable expression I remember. Except now her face is adorned with metal. Septum, lip, and eyebrow piercings, and numerous studs line her ears.
Yesterday, she was every bit the traditional princess in her white wedding gown.
Today, she radiates a delicious, sexy-as-fuck, cyberpunk superpower. Bold. Untouchable. Rare. The sort of rare that doesn’t want to be kept.
Makes me want to keep her even more.
My pulse quickens. My skin heats, and my boxers feel too damn tight.
I pause longer than necessary, drinking in how the sunlight kisses her cheeks, how the breeze teases the blue strands that frame her face.
She wears an oversized bomber jacket with a patch that says NO GODS NO MASTERS. The crop top underneath is printed with an anatomical heart made of gears and wires. Her high-waisted cargo pants cinch at the ankles with buckles, and green neon cords lace her combat boots.
Hot. Every single inch of her.
She touches her chin to her shoulder, watching me with a death glare. Then she turns away.