Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
What was he doing with it?
It’s a rare day that Jase can’t get a response from someone. He’s good at what he does. He left the junkie to bleed out and waited for me to come. It’s my name they fear the most.
If pain and the threat of death can’t get an answer, true fear is quick to provide one.
And it did. The only word the prick spoke before life slipped from him was a name. Marcus. All I got was a name. But it was all I needed.
It’s a name I’m growing to despise more and more as the days go by. Daniel used to have a good reputation with Marcus, a man who lives in the shadows and never shows himself. But that was before he found Addison again. Since then Marcus has yet to be found, but apparently, he’s been busy.
“Work,” I answer, and my short response tugs her smile down.
“There are leftovers,” she offers me even though the smile’s vanished. I can feel how the sweetness inside of her has hollowed out.
As she reaches across the table to play with the stem of her glass I ask her, “You made me dinner?”
“If you didn’t all look so alike, I’d know you are brothers by the way you react to a damn meal,” she offers with a somewhat playful nature.
I can’t pin down what she’s thinking. Or what she thinks of me as I stare at her.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Since you’ve had Bolognese?” she asks as if my words are nonsense.
“Since someone’s made us dinner,” I tell her and think of my mother. Once again, Aria looks at me as if she’s read my mind. The pretending to be happy and acting like things are normal slips away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and I choose not to respond. Sorry doesn’t take anything back.
“I like to cook,” she offers after a moment, breaking up the silence and tension. “If you’d like… I don’t mind cooking more?”
I used to avoid the kitchen and dining room when my mother got sick. It’s where she died. None of us liked to go to the kitchen. It was better to be in and out of that room as fast as we could. In a way, I should be thankful Talvery burned that house down. It was nothing but a dark memory.
Her slender fingers move up and down the glass and I expect her to drink it, but instead, she pushes it toward me. “Would you like some?”
I shake my head without speaking, wondering if she knows what I think about her habit.
“I don’t like it when you’re gone,” she says before pulling the glass toward her again.
“Why’s that?” I ask her, grateful to talk about anything other than the shit going on outside of this house. Enemies are growing in number each day.
“I start thinking things,” she says quietly, her gaze flickering between the pool of dark liquid in the glass and my own gaze.
“Is that right?” I ask her, pushing for more.
“It’s better when I don’t have a choice,” she admits solemnly. “At least, for the way I feel about myself.”
“What’s better?” The question slips from me as a crease deepens in my forehead.
“My thoughts are better,” she states but doesn’t elaborate.
“How’s that?”
“If I’m with you, I don’t worry about my family, the fighting…” her voice cracks and her face scrunches. “That’s awful, isn’t it?” She shakes her head, her flushed skin turning brighter. “It’s horrible. I’m horrible.” And with her last word she picks up the glass, but I press my hand to her forearm, forcing the glass back down to the table.
“You’re many things,” I tell her evenly as I scoot the seat closer to her, “but horrible isn’t one of them.”
“Weak. I’m weak,” she answers with disgust on her tongue. Her gaze leaves mine, although I will her not to break it. Instead, she stares at the stem of the wine glass. There’s still a good bit in her glass, but from what I can tell, this is her second bottle. “I’m so weak that I want to have no choice,” she says disbelievingly. “How fucked up is that?”
“You’re in a difficult position, with few options and severe consequences.” I’ve never been good with comfort, but I can offer reason. “And deep down inside, you know whatever you do, it won’t change anything.” The truth that flows easily from me is brutal and it causes Aria to visibly cower from me.
“Thank you oh so much,” she says with a deadpan voice as she lifts the glass and then downs all the remaining alcohol. “I was beginning to feel pathetic and like my life had no meaning whatsoever.” She raises her hand in the air and then slaps her palm down firmly on the table. There’s a bite of anger to her words that pisses me off. The glass hits the table before she looks me in the eye and tells me with an expression devoid of any emotion but hate, “Thank you so much for clearing that up for me.”