Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
I shake my head. This can’t be happening. My husband can’t be trying to get me to murder my own brothers with him. This is pure madness.
But there’s no joke in the serious way he’s watching me.
I suddenly feel sick. I whirl away from him and cover my mouth. I make it about two steps before I spew prosecco all over the floor. It splatters against the hem of my wedding dress. I feel pathetic and foolish. I’m so drunk I can barely think straight. Why did I have an entire bottle? What the heck was I thinking? I have zero tolerance on a good day, and I haven’t eaten all night.
Finn appears beside me. He rubs my back, his palm rolling over the scars, his fingertips tickling them. I puke a second time, gasping for breath. He gently holds my hair back. “Sorry, so sorry,” I mumble. “I got some on your shoes.”
“Let’s get you to bed.”
I stand up and wipe my mouth with a groan. “What, for our wedding night? Do we have to fuck now? Is your brother going to inspect our sheets?” I’m babbling. I bet he can’t even understand my slurring nonsense. He leads me back inside, down the steps, and into the guest bedroom. I flop down on the comforter and start wiggling out of my dress.
Finn helps. He’s surprisingly gentle. I burp and laugh.
“There you go.” He rolls me onto my side. I’m aware that my tits are out. They’re covered in flesh-colored cups, but there’s not much left to the imagination. “Are you going to be sick again?”
“God, I’m embarrassed.”
“You’re fine.” He gets me under the sheets.
“Why are you being nice? I tried to kill you with a bottle.”
“You did a very bad job of it.”
“But why?”
“Because you’re my wife.” He smooths my hair from my face. I want to ask him to stay, but even wasted out of my mind I can’t stoop that low. He moves away to the door and flips off the light. “Sleep it off, darling.”
“Don’t call me that. My mom calls me darling.”
“Then I’ll call you something else.”
“Wait.” I squint at his outline in the doorway. “Do you really want to kill my family?”
“Yes, I do. Goodnight.”
The door creaks closed. I’m spinning and burping. I have to put one foot on the floor to keep from puking again.
But my head’s ringing the whole time with two words, over and over again, like an angelic choir screaming down my brain stem.
Kill them. Kill them. Kill them, kill them, kill them, kill them, kill—
11
CAROLINE
My mouth tastes like cotton. My pillowcase is damp, probably from drool. My head hurts so much the light feels like it has a personal vendetta against me and it’s stabbing me directly in the eyes. I groan, roll over, and look around blearily.
There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. I don’t know where it came from but I gratefully chug it down. I almost knock over two Advil, but manage to swallow those too. I curl into the fetal position and try not to think, because thinking hurts, but sleep’s not coming again anytime soon.
Something feels odd on my hand. I peer at it through sticky eyelids and frown at the ring. Since when did I start wearing a wedding band?
The day before slowly floods back and I groan.
I got married. That really happened. I said the vows in front of my family and the most powerful people in the city. I’m really hitched to Finn Whelan for the rest of my life.
Except his offer…
I shiver, refusing to think about it. I don’t want to remember the pool. I don’t want to think about the bottle of prosecco, because if I think about the alcohol, I’m going to want to puke, and…
I rush into the bathroom and just barely make it in time. I’m sweating, back arched, yakking into the toilet when I sense someone standing nearby.
Finn’s looking down at me with an amused smile. He’s in jeans, boots, and a tight gray shirt that shows off his muscular forearms. I’d enjoy staring at those arms if I weren’t so deeply mortified.
“How are you feeling today?”
I groan and flush the toilet. “Please, no talk.”
“Why not?”
“Noise bad.”
“You’re so hungover you’re talking like a caveman.”
“Me no think.”
He casually tosses me a hand towel. “Clean yourself up, brush your teeth, and take some more Advil.” He pops two pills from a container in the bottom drawer. “You’re coming with me.”
I don’t have time to argue. There’s no more puke, thankfully, but I’m feeling like a dried-out sponge. I take the Advil for a second time and hope it stays down. I suck water straight from the sink spigot. I head back to bed, because obviously my psychotic husband didn’t actually think I was going to leave the house—