Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I don’t know what chance I have of impressing any of Damen’s family, especially after last night’s fiasco, but it won’t stop me from trying. While anger got the best of me yesterday, I’ll have a clean slate with many of Damen’s family members who arrive today. If I’m to show myself as a valuable addition to Damen’s life, someone who isn’t only a fun accessory for his family to hate over the holidays, I need to up my game.
I’ve dressed in my new clothes, this time even choosing a green sweater which is as festive as I can get. It features a zombie Santa, which I hope is not offensive to this Christmas-loving crime family. I toned down the black around my eyes, pulled my hair back into a sleek ponytail, and I’m ready to take on any games and festivities. I hope it’s not charades. I suck at charades.
But instead of the family with little kids I expected to see, there’s a group of young men, some of whom are still teenagers, all lounging on plush green sofas in front of a fireplace guarded by two medieval suits of armor. Their eyes dart toward us the moment I slip, placing my heel on the very edge of the step.
My prince saves me from tumbling down, but with the men all quieting down, as if we’re interrupting a secret meeting. I feel like a cat watched by a pack of wild dogs.
It’s a good thing that the biggest, meanest of them all is on my side.
“Gentlemen, long time no see,” Damen says, but their response is restrained. It doesn’t take me long to realize that they all know.
Know that Damen’s come out. That he’s supposedly married, and that I am the guy he is fucking.
Is that why the guy wearing mourning garb stares at me so intensely? I’m supposed to be the lone alternative guy in this palace of generational wealth, and he’s out-gothing me. While his clothes are elegant, they’re black head to toe, just varying in texture. No rips or intentional slashes in his pants. He’s paler than Damen, his black hair is pushed back, and a small silver chain with an opulent cross lies over his silk tie. While alternative, his clothes look so expensive he fits in even next to the teen in a Gucci tracksuit.
The other men are just as focused on me, but his razor-sharp gaze slits through the hickeys on my throat in a way that gives me a shiver.
“Just one year and so much has changed,” the guy says and to finish his look, inhales some smoke from a black cigarette.
“Good to see you too, Corvus,” Damen responds, and when I try to take my hand away, he holds it firmly, as if to let me know such dissent will not be tolerated. He’s made up his mind about my role during the holidays, and neither of us is going back.
The air grows dense, and I’ve been in enough dangerous situations to notice that all the other men have picked up on that too. I worry things might spin out of control, but then the teen in the colorful tracksuit stands and faces us with both hands down his pockets. He has a mop of blond hair, weirdly elaborate sneakers, and is, for some reason, wearing shades indoors.
“Is that him?” he asks with a wide grin. “The husband everyone’s talking about?”
Every single man in the room cringes, because of course they’ve been gossiping about us.
Damen falls right back into the pleasant persona he hooked me with. “That’s right. Meet my new husband, Killian.” He then proceeds to introduce his stable of male relatives and their places on the family tree (most of which I forget as soon as I hear them). I take note of the teenager in loud clothing, Aspen, because something tells me I better know who to blame when shit goes south. Call it intuition, but that guy sets off all kinds of alarms.
It’s the menace in black though who lands the first blow despite me being so polite and friendly.
“I just thought he’d be… taller.”
Now I regret not wearing the boots that give me the extra inch. Wouldn’t land me anywhere near Corvus’s eye level, but it would have been something. I don’t know why it’s so much more hurtful than the stupid shit thrown at me at the dinner table last night. Maybe because I’m actually a bit self-conscious about my height, even though Damen has told me I’m perfect several times.
Many answers come to the tip of my tongue. ‘I’m big where it counts’, ‘Height doesn’t matter when you’re horizontal’, or ‘Didn’t bother your dad last night’, but I bite down on them because I’ve promised myself I’ll be good, polite, fit in. It leaves me feeling painfully awkward when I wanna claw Corvus’s fucking face off.