Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I turn slow, sweeping the room with a glare that could strip paint. I whistle loud, breaking the murmurs. Heads drop to drinks, conversations picking up elsewhere.
Frost raises his glass in mock salute, but nobody tests it. That subtle statement that Melissa most likely missed.
Smirking, I shove through the side door, boots crunching gravel as I head for Hellraiser. I swing a leg over, firing it up with a throaty rumble that shakes the dust loose.
But as I grip the bars, memory crashes in. Fifteen years back, that sterile Vanguard interrogation room smelling of bleach and fear. Commander Kurr circles the metal table, his tactical gear creaking, while I sit chained, blood still drying on my hands.
“Tell me about your first kill, Agent 112.” Kurr's voice slices clean, no emotion. “Genna Garcia. Sixteen. You made it art. Throat slit ear to ear, staged like a sacrifice. Creative touch, leaving her eyes open, staring at the door like she waited for rescue.”
I remember her face, pale and surprised, blood pooling warm under my knees. “She talked too much. Deserved it.”
Kurr stops, leaning in close. “Brutal, yes. But the artistry... that's what sets you apart. We can use that.”
The engine's growl pulls me back. Beast wanted nothing more than to leave the place that turned him into a monster. Me? I was pretty sure I was one before they took me.
Nine
Melissa
Fucking Hella. We break girls like you open to see what’s inside. Or whatever the fuck he said. How am I supposed to stay here for—however long- and watch him sling his big dick around everywhere I walk.
I crook my finger at the Old Fella as soon as I hit the bar. “Please tell me you have something strong and good conversation skills?”
He chuckles, weathered face crinkling. “Ain't nobody fooled by that pretty face, darling.” He winks, pouring a finger of whiskey over ice.
“Ohhh, whiskey?” I tease, eyebrows dancing. “Trying to get me drunk, old man?” Harmless flirtation hurts no one. Except when it had.
He shakes his head, gnarled fingers gesturing over my shoulder toward the door. “Nope, but I fear you may need it.”
I turn to see Yana entering with another woman. She has inky black hair cascading over olive skin, colourful tattoos that cover arms that speak the same language of gym-freak as Hella.
Great. This should be fun.
Whiskey slides down my throat slow, enough to scorch my gut.
Her mouth turns up in a wide smile. The rest of her face doesn’t fucking move. “So this is the bakery girl?” Her voice carries a slight accent I can't place.
Old Fella slides another whiskey across the bar without being asked. This time, three fingers. Smart. Very smart.
The woman, whoever she is, clearly warrants liquid courage.
“Melissa,” I correct, extending my hand. “And you would be...?”
“Jada.” She shakes my hand without breaking her smile. Huh. No sarcasm or bitchy side-eyes. “Hella's mentioned you.”
My answer comes too quick. “Funny. He's never mentioned you.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. Is that pride I see on her face? Or fascination?
She leans in, and Jesus Christ does she have to be so pretty. “That's because when we're together, there's not much talking happening.”
Pause.
My stomach hits the ground, but my face doesn’t. Motherfucker. He has a girl. Or maybe wife!
Her white teeth flash when she laughs at her own joke. “More yelling. Screaming. Ya know.”
Relief floods through me in a way I will never admit as a warm palm settles at the small of my back. I don't need to look to know who it belongs to. My body recognises him all too well.
“Playing nice?” His lips move over my temple as he steps between us, effectively creating a barrier.
“Never,” Jada laughs, lifting her shot glass.
I down my whiskey in one burning gulp, shoving off the stool. “I need air.”
My shoes hit the gravel, and the New Zealand sun slaps me right in the face. Inhale, exhale.
I wouldn’t consider myself a jealous person. I’ve shared everything in my life with my baby sister. In fact, I made sure she always had more than I did.
I’m a fucking giver!
…. just… apparently not with him.
This isn’t that. This is feeling a lot like someone trying to take something of mine that isn’t there’s to take. What the fuck.
I pace walk back and forward. He isn’t mine. He’s for the streets!
So why. Why does it feel like someone has reached inside my chest and ripped out all logic.
Five years ago
Church. A place I never thought I’d say ever say. Yet here I stand, at the front of a cathedral that would give Gothic artists a lifetime of inspo.
I turn over my shoulder, down the long, dark path I walked through. Prague. I fucking made it to Prague! Me. Little kiwi girl from a small little country that most people only recognise because of the Haka. Spires and narrow cobblestone streets surround me. It’s he kind of beauty you feel, not see.