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)
“Or solves them.” Leonid steps forward.
“Do we really need another dead psychopath? Yawn. Been there, stabbed that. Let’s try this new thing called restraint.”
“And risk Dove’s safety?” Monty asks.
“Dove’s protected. Unlike her brother.” Wolfson ruffles my hair. “I always wanted a house pet. I’ll feed him and deworm him and buy him a pretty collar. If he bites, I’ll put him down. I promise.”
I study Wolfson closely, trying to unravel his angle.
He’s not sane. Not even close. He’s madness dressed in eyeliner and flower-printed rain boots. Unmedicated, unbothered, and somehow still functioning. But put a needle in his hand, and the tragedy becomes alchemy.
Wolfson Strakh can tattoo like no one I’ve ever seen. A fact I discovered through meticulous research.
An idea forms quickly, driven partly by cruelty, partly by intrigue.
“Fine.” I narrow my eyes, catching the interest in his. “I’ll take your deal. Under one condition.”
“Yes?” He flutters his lashes.
“You give me a tattoo. Today.”
Silence hugs the room for an awkward moment before Wolfson bursts out laughing. “For real?”
A chorus of objections resounds from the rational ones as I nod, confirming my offer.
“Told you.” He smiles at his disapproving family. “He wants me under his skin in every sense. I should charge double.”
He jokes, but he doesn’t see it. He’s inviting me in. The second he touches me, I will be under his skin.
People think it’s greed or fear that destroys them. It’s not. It’s the need to be unique. The sick little ache to be noticed. Recognized. Admired by all. That’s the real human weakness. The fatal flaw.
Nothing cracks open a human faster than the sweet sound of their own name.
Wolfson wears that flaw like a badge. He might not realize how tightly he clings to his ego-stroking art and personalized validation, but he will. When it all burns, it won’t be blood paving the way to his demise. It’ll be that deep hunger for affirmation that he couldn’t live without.
I don’t have to do much. Just wait. Wait until he falls to his knees, arms reaching, shattered, and shaking.
And I’ll be there. No lube. No mercy.
“Out.” I make a shooing motion at my brothers. “You have a distillery to run, planes to fly, and…” I lock eyes with my father. “You have a pint-sized baby mama to irritate.”
When Frankie got abducted, Monty dropped the whole CEO gig like a bad habit, ditched his billion-dollar empire, and spent every second tearing the world apart to find her. When he finally got her back, he didn’t return to work.
He still wears the suits and owns the global enterprise. But he spends every waking moment orbiting Frankie and my brothers like a control freak. Watching. Managing. Pulling strings no one asked him to touch.
I don’t know how they stand it. If he tried that shit with me, I’d fold his pretentious clothes with him in it.
At the mention of Frankie, Monty leans back against the counter, arms folded and jaw clenched. Leo’s eyes blaze with the flesh-mauling thoughts of a mountain troll, and Kody’s dark stare drills into Jag, aiming to crush him with a single glance.
They can’t hide Frankie’s existence or their baby growing inside her. They sure as hell can’t hide what they would do if someone touched what’s theirs. It wouldn’t be justice. It would be annihilation.
As the shop bleeds hostility, Jag Rath stands at the center, shoulders back, hands relaxed at his sides as if he isn’t the target of their violent thoughts. His smirk mocks us all.
At least the weapons have been sheathed.
“You’re going to ink the man who wants you dead?” Monty growls. “Think through this, Son.”
“Relax. He’s letting me put needles in his skin. Not the other way around. If he twitches, I’ll just bleed him a little faster.”
They know I can handle myself. I don’t need a gun or a blade. I am the weapon. My reflexes, instincts, and total lack of fucks to give… No civilized man can match that.
I wasn’t made here. Hoss built me. I’m apex by design. Teeth, fists, and ferocity are my factory settings. Same as my brothers.
Which is why Monty gives a tight nod and steps into Jag’s space like he owns the man’s air. “Hand over your weapons.”
Jag flashes his teeth, bristling with ice and arrogance, but he does it. So do I. Not that it matters. There are enough guns stashed in this place to start a small war.
But that’s not the point.
Monty is laying down the rules. If this gets ugly, it stays personal. No steel. No bullets. Just skin, bone, and pain. Because Monty knows, if it comes down to bare hands, I’m walking out. Jag is not.
Even if Jag’s wrist wasn’t as swollen and black as roadkill, I’d still put him down. But damn. Just looking at the busted thing makes my knuckles ache in sympathy. He should really get it checked out.