Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
I watch Legion's face carefully, searching for any sign that this hurts him. But if it does, he doesn't show it.
Maybe this is it, then?
Maybe this is how we keep the peace?
Mercy goes away to a good school where she wants to be.
Cash gets to pretend he's altruistic.
And Legion and I can… well… start our lives. We don't have to live here. I'll happily live at his trailer. I don't mind at all. I mean, I don't really have a job, exactly. I maintain the social media sites just because… well, they're worth a lot as far as reach goes. And people genuinely seem to like what I do—which is nothin' really. Odd. But I guess watching someone else live their life makes it easier to ignore your own.
I can do that from anywhere.
All I need is a phone.
CHAPTER 12
I stand in the hallway outside Mercy's room, watching her sleep through the cracked door. The mansion's quiet presses against my ears—no shouting neighbors, no bikes firing up at 3 AM, no thin walls carrying every sound. Just silence thick enough to drown in.
Mercy's riding boots sit by her dresser, caked with arena sand but lined up neatly. Never seen her arrange anything that precisely before. Her helmet hangs on some fancy custom hook. Her backpack leans against the desk, zipped tight and ready for school in a few weeks.
Her hair spreads across the pillow, finally brushed proper. No more tangles for me to try to comb out while she squirmed and cursed like a miniature sailor. No wishing our mother was still alive to handle these things.
She's clutching that Rimrock catalog to her chest. Not the BB gun. A school catalog.
And she's just sleeping. Like a kid should.
Three days from now, she'll be fitted for uniforms with the Ashby black card. In three weeks, she'll walk through those academy gates with her head high, backpack filled with a tablet and a phone.
The truth hits me hard. She's safer here than she's ever been with me.
I close the door with a soft click, step back, and exhale.
I hesitate at Savannah's door, hand frozen on the knob. She went to bed about an hour ago while I went outside for some air—a cigarette, really. At least that's what Savannah thought. I did smoke, but all I really wanted was some time to think.
Now, thinkin's over.
The door opens without a sound. Closes the same way. Rich people hinges. No creaking to announce you're coming or going.
Savannah lies there watching me, moonlight spilling across her like water. Her hair fans out on the pillow, blue eyes tracking me in the darkness. She lifts her hand, palm up. Waiting.
I cross to her, feeling like I'm walking through someone else's life. The floor doesn't creak. The air smells like lavender, not mold.
I take her hand, lowering myself to the edge of her bed. The mattress barely dips under my weight. My bare chest feels exposed in the moonlight—all those tattoos telling stories I've never explained to her. The archangel over my heart. The demons writhing beneath its sword. The bone court. The scorch line. The tally marks nobody understands.
Savannah's fingers find the archangel, tracing where the flaming sword pierces straight through the horned beast's chest. Her touch is cool against the scar tissue where my brand is finally healing.
I take her hand, bringing it to my lips. Press a kiss into her palm. Her pulse jumps against my mouth.
"Savannah," I whisper, not sure what else to say.
She rises up on her knees, the silk nightgown sliding against her skin. I reach for the hem, lifting it slowly. She raises her arms, letting me pull it over her head. The moonlight paints her naked body silver and shadow.
I run my fingertips down her throat, across her collarbone, down to where her heartbeat hammers beneath her skin. She shivers under my touch. My hands feel too rough for her, but she never flinches from them. Never has.
"Come here," she whispers, and I do.
I lay her back against the pillows, moving over her like a shadow. My lips find her neck, her shoulder, the hollow of her throat. She tastes like honey and salt. Like every good thing I never deserved.
I trail my mouth down her body, taking my time. My tongue circles one nipple, then the other, feeling them harden against me. Her fingers tangle in my hair, not pulling, just holding on. Like I'm something worth keeping.
Lower I go, mapping the terrain of her ribs, the soft dip of her belly, the curve of her hip. I slide my hands beneath her, lifting her up to my mouth. Her thighs part for me, and I settle between them, breathing her in.
The first touch of my tongue makes her gasp. I go slow, tasting her like I'm memorizing the flavor. And I am. Every sound she makes, every tremor that runs through her body, I'm storing it all away. For when this ends. For when she realizes what I've always known—that I'm just a placeholder until something better comes along.