Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
That’s how Lissa got here. She was given a choice: use her body to lure in fighters, or end up on her back with a needle in her arm.
Sudden tears prick my eyes. Oh God. Lissa. The grief is so hot and sudden that it blasts the numbness away, because the reason the Iron Blood are coming is to pick her up, so she can lure in new blood. But she’s gone.
“Don’t you dare cry for him,” Doc says sharply.
Startled, I glance at him. But he’s not watching me. Instead he’s looking out past the barns, where two of Victor’s guards are digging.
Burying Bravo.
“I’m not,” I say, my voice raw.
Doc’s face softens. “Don’t cry for Lissa, either. Her misery is over now. We should all be so lucky to have it end so quickly and painlessly.”
Lucky? In disbelief I stare at him before pulling my gaze away. I would bet anything that Lissa would rather be miserable and alive than buried out in the desert next to Bravo. But maybe that’s what Doc has to tell himself to keep going. We probably all lie to ourselves all the time, just to keep a spark of hope alive.
Maybe what I’m doing now—pretending that license plates will ever make a difference. But I have to do something. I have to believe it’ll help, one day. So I look each of Papa’s guards in the face, in case I ever need to identify them later. I try to memorize every distinguishing mark, listen for accents, strain to hear names.
And I don’t dwell on the fact that I don’t get much. These guys don’t waste words. In silence, they wave Doc and me through the front door of the farmhouse. This is where Victor’s guards come to sleep and relax when they’re off duty, but no one seems relaxed today. Maybe because they were all forced to witness Bravo’s execution—which served as a warning not to make the same mistake.
Papa’s waiting for us in the parlor, which I suspect is a room used solely for this purpose. Nothing about the other rooms I’ve been escorted through suggests anything other than a country farmhouse, with floral curtains and overstuffed furniture, but the parlor has a completely different vibe, as if specifically decorated to Papa’s taste. Leather and wood abound, reminding me of an elegant study or library—except with no books. Two guards in black suits flank the parlor door as we’re waved in. Another covers the French doors that lead out onto a porch. Victor stands at rigid attention in front of Papa, who’s the only one in the room looking at ease. Wearing a suit without a tie, the neck of his white shirt open, he sits on a wide Chesterfield chair with his legs crossed at the knee and casually holding an unlit cigar.
I don’t need to memorize his features. Everything about him is indelibly seared into my brain by the terror and desperation I felt during our first meeting.
Salt and pepper hair. An angular face, tanned and lined but not like my grandpa’s was after working outside for decades. This might be a man who spends his days in a field, but he’d be observing the people working for him and not working himself.
Papa lights his cigar, observing me through a puff of smoke before asking, “No smile for me, Cherry?”
I manage an expression that must have satisfied him—or maybe it’s just my obedience that does—because he nods and gestures toward the leather sofa across from his chair. “I understand that you’ve had an emotional morning. Please, have a seat.”
I comply, making certain to arrange myself in as ladylike manner as possible, with my back straight, hands folded in my lap, my knees together. Doc sits with far less grace, feet braced apart on the floor and leaning forward to pour himself a coffee from the carafe centered on the low table between us. Shortbread cookies form a neat semi-circle on a silver tray.
Oh my god, those cookies look so good. My mouth waters, imagining the sweet, buttery crumble. But I don’t dare reach for them.
“He suffered minor electrical burns on his testicles,” Doc says.
“No permanent damage?”
Shaking his head, the doctor sips from his coffee, then adds, “It wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience for him, but aside from a little discomfort over the next few days, there will be no lasting effects.” His lips twitch. “Though he might step more carefully around Cherry.”
“Yes.” Papa’s answering smile holds no amusement, but his gaze doesn’t move toward me. Instead it hardens and lands on Victor. “I think everyone would do well to be more careful around Cherry.”
A dull flush climb’s Victor’s neck. Because it was his Taser that I’d stolen. So Victor won’t be dropping his guard around me in the future. Which means nothing will change, because he never really dropped his guard in the past, either. This morning was a fluke. A singular opportunity that I’ll never see again.