Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 114936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“You can be my dirty little bitch soon. Just get me the fuck out of here.”
Kyrin leaves a soft kiss on my head before going to help The Kings and Lilith with Eli.
I wince when Keaton wraps an arm around me. I can’t swallow all of what has happened. I don’t have the mental capacity to unpack it all in this moment, so I allow him to carry my weight.
I will never forget.
I say nothing the whole way back. Not when Keaton carries me out of the boat and onto theirs. Not when I watch Kill help Dove onto the boat too. Not when we drive back to The Main Castle, and not when I’m back in my room.
I don’t speak. To anyone.
Betrayal creeps up my spine and cripples my throat as I fall to the floor in the bathroom. Everything I knew was a lie. The memories with The Brothers—a lie. I didn’t meet them until I was fourteen years old in that club. Tears roll down my cheeks viciously. No amount of training with The Fathers, Bam Bam, or Delila could have prepared me for this. There’s no shield to protect your memories and mind around people like them. I need answers, but for right now, I push myself back up from the ground and turn on the shower.
I can’t trust anyone.
I thought this was my family. I thought I knew these people—I didn’t.
Stepping beneath the water, I release a deep breath when it rolls over my body and through my scalp.
Everything after that age was real.
Everything before—a lie. The memories that weren’t real begin to dissolve into the back of my mind the longer that time goes on. As if they know they’re not needed anymore and are leaving me. Their job here is done, the manipulation—done.
The times I was with Keaton and we would play around. The times of me riding. Every conversation. Every memory. Embrace. All a fucking lie!
I don’t stop the tears when they continue to drown me. My sobs turn into violent hiccups as I shove the shower tap down, cutting the water. Stepping out, I swipe the condensation from the mirror with my hand and wince when I see my reflection. The skin around my eyes is puffy and dark, my face drained of any color. I touch the ends of my hair with my fingers, and all the color does is remind me of the flowers that grew from the meadow at the farm. He pushed inside of me so roughly I yelped as my small fingernails dug into his thighs.
Kicking the toilet seat up, I lurch over the bowl and spill whatever was left in my guts out. My stomach burns as the final heave comes up dry and I hit the flush button, swiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Gargling some mouthwash and washing my hands, I hurry into the bedroom and find my phone on my bed. Scrolling through my contacts, I find Hairdresser Kiznitch and hit the phone button.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I need your help. Now.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be there soon. Anything I should bring?”
“Bleach. I need to get this color out of my hair.”
The line goes quiet for a brief second. “You sure?”
“Yes.” I tap on the end call button and tear through my clothes to find something to wear. Something powerful. Something that’s going to make me look better than I feel.
I hold up a pair of sweatpants, squeezing them tightly in my hand. All I want to wear is this. This right here. I know I have business with The Brothers, business that I need answers to before making any further decisions, but now I’m nervous.
Why was King so quick to kill his father? I mean, sure, he did a lot wrong, but did killing him also benefit them in a way?
I don’t trust anyone.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“It’s unlocked!”
Jordan pops his head in. “There’s an Amie here to see you?”
“Let her in.” I wave my hand and lower myself onto the edge of the bed when she enters, pushing a metal cart with the latest Louis Vuitton bag on top.
“Hey, Cartier!” Amie is a five-foot-something goddess who is a magician with hair. She pauses when she sees me, placing a hand on her hip. “I know better than to ask, but honey…” She slowly makes her way to the bed, kneeling in front of me. Her hand rests on mine. “I know this may not be my place, but are you sure this is what you want?” No, I’m not. My blue hair is the one thing that makes me feel like me. I know it sounds superficial, but to me, it never was. I can’t imagine myself without it.
I reach up and touch the ends as pain rips through my chest. “No, I don’t know.” Did my subconscious know to color my hair to take away the pain of staying the brunette I once was?