Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I mean, they technically were, but still. Also, how much does this Preston know?
“Come on.” He steps closer. “Just give me some ammo to crush that big man.”
He’s peering down at me, narrowing his eyes and kind of pushing into my space. My chest tightens and I step back. Pushy men, or those who don’t respect space, hike up my anxiety and trigger memories I covered up and shoved into my metal box that I’m glad Dahlia kept with a few of my belongings.
Those memories start slow, like a spark of electricity through my brain. Preston’s cologne asphyxiates me, and I can feel thick, meaty fingers trying to pull at my skirt, large hands landing on my shoulders, over my breasts.
Our last foster father tried to touch me any chance he got, and even though I pushed him—and got punched—I always feel his meaty hands on me whenever a man touches me threateningly.
Not with Jude, though. The irony.
My shoes catch on the concrete and the spark of discomfort grows and expands. My mouth fills with saliva, and I know I’ll be sick soon.
A large body appears behind Preston.
My heart stutters.
And so does my breathing.
My shaky fingers latch onto my wrist as I stare into those dark eyes, the color of the night. Still as disapproving as ever, still as…hypnotizing.
It’s been months since I last saw Jude Callahan in person.
But seeing him right now is like being hit by an arrow right in the heart. A rush of inexplicable emotions buzz through me, and my limbs are trembling.
Is it anger? Is it all the unsaid things I couldn’t tell him?
Is it something else?
He looks as tall and muscular and intimidating as I remember him. A man who’s able to snap someone in half if he wants to.
A monster.
The man who tried to kill me but changed his mind after he made a deal with Kane, and Mario became collateral damage in his games.
I don’t know what I expect him to say or what I’d reply, but he says nothing.
Just stares.
And I stare back, hoping he sees how much I hate him. That I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done to Mario.
“Oh, big man. It’s Sleeping Beauty, who’s not asleep anymore,” Preston says, completely oblivious to the tension thickening the air.
Jude wraps an arm around his neck from behind, headlocking him, and then drags Preston with him.
“Wait! I still haven’t heard her answer about the disappointing sex. I was going to start a podcast!” Preston tries to fight, but Jude is already taking him away.
He doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t acknowledge me.
As if I’m back to being the wallflower he wouldn’t have noticed if life hadn’t shoved me right in his way.
22
VIOLET
The place I live in is an overwhelming extravagance and bigger than anything I’ve ever stepped foot in, let alone called mine.
Every inch of this penthouse screams wealth and power and is way beyond my dreams, let alone reality.
The decor is a blend of beige, deep black-blue, and layered shades of blue, probably Dahlia’s doing. She must’ve told Kane that blue is my favorite color.
Despite my acting strong being on my own, like when I abandoned our movie night the other day, I’d rather have her than this place.
I don’t know how to describe it, but when we used to live in shabby, creaking houses with black mold and health hazards, I was happy knowing she was sleeping under the same roof.
That I wasn’t alone.
That, no matter how hard it gets, she’s just there, trying to make me laugh, and buying me ginger ale while tasting the food I cook.
It’s not that we don’t have that anymore, and I can still spend time with her, but she also has her own life and a dashing boyfriend that I don’t want to annoy, because he’s only treated me well.
But as I walk around the new home that doesn’t feel like home, I just miss my sister.
The walls are smooth, the lighting soft, casting a moody, elegant glow over pristine floors that never creak and furniture that looks too expensive to touch.
The kitchen is a chef’s wet dream, fitted with state-of-the-art appliances, glossy marble countertops, and large cabinets. The island is massive, a centerpiece of luxury, but it’s cold because no one has ever leaned against it, laughed over coffee, or made a mess of flour and sugar.
Or ginger ale.
I close my eyes, refusing to get consumed by that memory.
It might seem ancient in real time, but the months I spent sleeping feel like a couple of hours in my brain. I still can’t force myself to think of that time as months.
My feet are sluggish as I walk out of the ensuite bathroom, draped in a towel. I throw one last admiring glance at the jacuzzi set against a backdrop of ivory marble, brushed gold faucets, and sleek glass panels that reflect too much of my unsightly body back at me.