Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Not just because last night was fraught.
I’ve never been good at talking shit out, not after Charli, but I also don’t like letting venom fester.
Plus, the fact that she should stay close so I can watch her. The odds of anyone grabbing her for ransom off the quiet streets of Portland are slim, but still.
It’s part of the job I’ve put on the back burner the second she started riding my cock. Then again, if she’s with another Blackthorn in a city like home, she should be safe enough.
I sigh deeply and roll out of bed, heading downstairs.
The house is still quiet, and even before I reach the kitchen, I can sense she’s gone. Clee has a presence wherever she goes.
I can’t help myself. I walk through the living room, stopping where the canvas remains propped up by the window. Rough textures and paint on cardboard spill sheets strewn everywhere.
A window to disaster in my world, and I wouldn’t want to change anything.
I need to stop wanting things I can’t have.
Coffee will help. A strong, dark brew helps settle the world.
It’s too early for Kit to get up, so I make myself a pour over cup, strong as jet fuel.
Feeling almost human again, I open my laptop at the dining table.
Work. All the work I’ve been too distracted to focus on recently.
That’ll keep me busy, and then I won’t have to think about Cleo and her future. Won’t have to dwell on passing on her invitation last night, an offer to merge lives that will never make sense.
I wonder how long this can go on, the silence between us filled with a thousand words.
I bet she’s telling Margot all about it, the whole dumb situation.
Up until now, I never understood what the kids meant when they said situationship. I’ve decided I don’t like it.
Chugging my coffee, I drag a hand through my hair and open my emails. There’s a new one from Fairfax with URGENT in the subject line.
“Shit,” I whisper.
I tap the message.
Fairfax’s style is short and succinct.
He says he’s identified a PhD student of a Russian professor he contacted in Hungary. Apparently, that student has ties to the Black Talon Group. The professor swears he never leaked a word about the Hera Egg.
However, it’s possible the student had unauthorized access to the professor’s files, either through the professor’s own negligence or the student hacking.
How fucking convenient.
Fairfax promises to follow up and find out, and I want to believe him.
Black Talon?
Fuck me.
I don’t even need to dig to know they’re infamous. They’ve been the tip of the spear in several black-market related ops and hits in Africa, Syria, Ukraine.
Guns for hire. Pirates. Often employed by rogue governments when they aren’t willing to strike out on their own for plunder.
Still, I leave no stone unturned, refreshing my memory as I flick through articles online. I pay close attention to their organizational structure, their logistics, studying how they work.
There’s a boatload of recent speculation about their involvement in several big heists involving priceless artifacts. Ancient church relics in Damascus, Sumerian pieces from northern Iraq, even an unsolved precision robbery in Tuscany that knocked off some rare Etruscan art.
A man with a black beard and blacker eyes at the head, Viktor Guchkov. He wears the same kind of expression I’ve only ever seen on terroristic fucks during my service.
The kind of man who traded another piece of his soul, his humanity, with every throat he slashed.
The kind of monster who wouldn’t think twice about inventing new, horrific tortures if it means another paycheck.
Convenient. Again.
With Fairfax working in this field, he should’ve known the security risks—probably better than I do.
But he’ll have contacts protecting his ass. Not to mention his connections, a few degrees removed from the Russian underworld.
I shake my head, snarling at Guchkov’s ugly, dead-eyed photo on the screen.
Is it a ruse or is Fairfax helping us?
Everything hinges on the answer.
I read the email again, searching for anything that offers me a hint, but there’s nothing. He’s written everything very plainly.
Just the facts, dry as dust.
The facts he’s decided to tell me anyway.
He didn’t even give me the goddamned professor’s name, did he? Just a brief note that he won’t compromise his colleague’s identity and risk any official involvement.
Things can be messy in that world once police or government investigators show up.
Don’t I know it.
If I was in his position, and if I was telling the truth, I’d stick to the same line. I can’t hold that against him.
It just doesn’t prove his innocence. The lack of detail, that’s a mark against him in the trust department.
I’m so lost in thought I don’t even hear small footsteps pattering into the room until I look up. Kit pauses at the threshold, staring at me.
“No Cleo?”
My chest tightens. I close my laptop.
“Hi, Dad,” I say with a sarcastic smile. “Good morning, Dad, how are you doing this fine day? Try again, hon.”