Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
The place instantly charms me, as it’s not what I expect. Honey-colored logs create thick and solid walls that don’t feel new or staged. They’re scarred a little, worn smooth where hands have touched them over years, with beams across the ceiling, the kind wide enough to sit on and hide. The smell is layered. Wood smoke clings stubbornly to stone, the bite of salt air creeps through cracks, and the scent of leather softens the notes.
Windows eat up the far wall, and beyond them the Pacific heaves, gray and restless. A stone fireplace waits, logs stacked beside it. Couches sag with use, blankets tossed like afterthoughts. A low table is scratched all to hell. Books crowd shelves in the corner, spines cracked, some stacked sideways because there’s never enough room. It’s messy. It’s lived in. It hums with life. Not the sterile kind of hideout I expected. A home. Which makes no damn sense with Justice standing in the middle of it.
He doesn’t give me time to stare and just heads down a hall, boots echoing on the boards, to shove open a set of double doors.
The bedroom is more country than city. A heavy quilt in red and cream spreads over a large bed surrounded by oak furniture built to last. But it’s the stones that stick out. Obsidian chunks sit in a bowl on the dresser, along with polished pieces gleaming on the shelves, as well as sparkling garnets set into the base of lamps. Little shadows and sparkles in an otherwise cozy room. A reminder this is his space. Not soft. Not safe.
He dumps the many bags on the bed and looks back at me. “Take a shower. Pick something to wear. I’ll put the groceries away.”
The words are simple, but they hit with weight. Justice in a kitchen isn’t domestic—it’s deliberate. Another move in a game I don’t know the rules of. He doesn’t have to feed me. He doesn’t have to soften the edges. So why does he? To get under my guard? To remind me he can be both the hand that starves and the hand that gives?
“Tomorrow,” he adds, “I’ll take you to the computer hub in the basement.”
I perk up. “You have a computer hub?”
“Of course I have a computer hub.” His voice is even, brooding rather than amused, the weight of it settling heavy in the room. “We’ll see what we can find out about the illness.” He pauses, his gaze flicking to the garnet bookends on the shelf, then to a chunk of obsidian catching the weak afternoon light. Shadows carve harsh lines across his face when he turns back to me. “I’ll help you take down TimeGem Moments in exchange.”
I take a step back, pulse leaping. Him actually helping me could get this thing done. It’s too big, too dangerous, too … real. “They’ll come after us,” I say.
“I’m planning on it.” His answer is simple, ironclad.
A bark sounds from outside, sharp and happy. Justice exhales, almost a growl, and rakes a hand down his jaw before he says, “I’ll let your dog in. Then we’ll meet in the kitchen.”
Anticipation lights through me, sparking quick and bright like electricity. If he really helps me, this could work. But the stones glimmer dark in the corners of the room, garnets glowing faintly, obsidian swallowing light, and I can’t shake the sense that they’re watching, listening. Like him.
My stomach twists, heavy and cold. What happens when we succeed? What happens if we fail? Even if I find a way to help him, what does he plan to do with me afterward? “I’d like an agreement in writing.”
He snorts. “No.”
All right, I’m definitely going to escape. Sure, there are guards out there, but I didn’t see a moat like at Thorn’s place. No monsters circling in black water, no castle walls. Just trees, ocean, and a road I can vanish down if I get the chance.
As if catching my thoughts, Justice moves. One step, maybe two, but it feels like the air shifts with him. Suddenly he’s there, right in front of me, close enough the heat rolling off his body skims my skin. My back straightens on instinct.
His eyes pin me. They’re dark, unreadable, and the kind that don’t just look at you but cut through skin and bone to something deeper. They drag across me, slow and sure, and my pulse stutters like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
Heat filters along my every nerve ending. I swallow, my throat dry. “Um.”
Justice doesn’t bother to answer. Instead, he lifts a hand, deliberate, his knuckles brushing against my temple before sliding into my hair. His fingers are warm, rough, threaded with strength I can feel in every careful stroke. He pushes a stray curl behind my ear, then lets his hand linger at the side of my face.