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)
The contrast between what’s happening in the next room and what I’ve lived through is suffocating. While they’re shamelessly nude and groping one another, I can’t take off my shirt in front of another person.
I despise the scars crisscrossing my torso. Some from Denver. Most from the doctor. My family doesn’t know the worst of it. I don’t tell them. What’s the point? Monty already looks at me like he failed. Maybe he did. I don’t need to remind him.
The bed groans, signaling Kody’s climactic finish. As he retreats to the bathroom, Frankie and my dad continue to go at it.
Give her a break, old man.
Looks like he’s killing her. Pounding her flesh. Sucking her face. Splitting her in half.
Should he be doing that while she’s pregnant? She’s not showing yet, but still. His stamina is both impressive and deeply disturbing.
And Kody? The creeper stands in the doorway of the bathroom, watching them with hooded eyes. Probably filing away her moans so he can savor them later like a feral, sex-starved Lycan.
Finally, they finish and stagger off to the bathroom. Water runs. Clothes are collected and donned. Amid it all, Frankie’s melodic laughter makes me smile.
Until a deep grunt cuts through the space. Kody’s voice, low and knowing.
I peer out just as Monty’s head snaps toward the closet.
Of course, Kody knows I’m here. He has supernatural hearing, a souvenir he kept from our Arctic nightmare.
Without another word, he and Frankie slip out of the apartment.
“Come out, Wolf.” Monty shrugs on his suit jacket and lowers to the bed.
I’ve never been shy about shit that makes other people uncomfortable. Sex. Death. The cringe in between. So I push open the door and step into the dim light.
He looks… Off. Sex-mussed black hair, silver at the temples. Expensive suit, slightly wrinkled. Blue eyes softer than usual. He’s a handsome fucker. Like father, like son. But right now, he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, looking a little uncomfortable.
I can help with that.
“Relax, Dad. That wasn’t the first time you raw-dogged my childhood trauma. I’ve seen you grunting and groaning in every position all over the island. Your technique isn’t terrible, but if you want a performance review—”
“I don’t.” He shoots me a look, but there’s no bite behind it. Just exhaustion.
“Don’t act like you don’t love an audience.”
“Not from my son.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We need to establish some boundaries.”
“And miss out on this father-son bonding? We need a road trip. You, me, some hookers with hearts of gold. Think of the memories we’d make together.”
His eyes go hollow, flashing with darkness and…
Shame.
What did I say?
Oh.
Right.
He cheated on Frankie once, while she was a prisoner at Hoss, and he’s never forgiven himself. His hand clenches into a fist, jaw flexing like I just took a swing at him.
Well, shit.
“Kidding, obviously. I was going for inappropriate, not whatever the hell just happened to your face.” I push out a laugh, too quick, too forced. “I mean, you wouldn’t last five minutes in a car with me. Too much personality. You’d kill me before we hit the first motel.”
“I would never hurt you, Wolf.” His eyes laser into mine. “Never.”
“I know. Jesus tits. Lighten up.” I cross the room and drop into the armchair facing him.
He’s trying. I’ll give him that. Since I met him, he’s been making an effort. Trying to be my father. But there’s too much distance between us, filled with twenty-four years of trauma and regret.
“So…” He rests his elbows on spread knees. “How’s the tattoo shop?”
“Declan talks a lot. He’s a great mentor, but there’s no off switch. I could strap him to a wind turbine and power half of Alaska.”
“Talking with people can be exhausting.”
“I don’t mind the talking. It’s the listening. I have selective hearing. It selects fuck this conversation every time.”
He nods, waiting, probably wondering if this is one of those conversations.
I drag my nails along the arm of the chair, letting the tension stretch before I break it. “He said the other owner of the shop is in town. For good.”
I’ve never met the elusive Jag Rath, but his name carries some serious street cred. People talk about him like he’s the godfather of Sitka.
It’s just cheap fear porn.
Everyone knows Monty Novak is the richest man in Alaska. He owns the whole damn state.
But the mention of Jag sparks something in Monty’s eyes. Interest. Concern.
“Jag is the sole owner of your tattoo shop,” he says. “He bought it anonymously many years ago and let everyone believe Declan was the owner.”
“You know Jag?”
“I know of him.”
Monty knows everything about everyone who comes and goes in this town, but he doesn’t offer more.
“Come on. Tell me.” I nudge his leg with my boot. “Is he actually scary, or is he compensating for a small dick?”