Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
The sound of ringing fills the space as I put the phone on speaker. If he’s smart, he’ll answer the damn phone, or maybe he won’t, and both our fates will be sealed. Maybe it would be better if that happened. At least it would be out of my hands.
The ringing stops, and the line fills with static, but there’s no greeting. I clear my throat. “Dr. Brooks?”
A sleep-gruff voice answers, “What do you want?”
“I need you at the Arturo estate as soon as possible.”
There's a pause. “You know the rules?”
I don't have the energy to posture right now. “No.”
He releases a groan.”I won't kill anyone. And my fee will be billed; payment is due in cash.”
I nod, then remember I'm on the phone, eyes squeezed shut. “That's fine. They're already dead, I think. I just need to have you confirm it. To do…whatever it is you do.”
He hangs up without another word, and I stumble back to sit on the couch under the window. Pressure builds in my chest, and all I want to do is cut the pain, my heart, my lungs—rip all of it out. Rip it all away until nothing is left. No reminder of the beast beating inside me. I can't believe I did this. I can’t believe what he forced me to do. I stare at the papers covering the ground, blood seeping up over the edges.
What he's going to force me to do.
I’m not sure how many minutes pass as I sit, my thoughts attacking me. Nothing more than a fucking disgrace. I catch sight of movement out of the corner of my eye, and it drags me back to the present.
A man kneels on the floor over my grandfather’s body. I blink a few times, trying to determine whether I’m seeing things. When he doesn’t disappear, I convince myself that he’s real. “You're right, he's dead.”
I swallow hard and let my features fall into the arrogant asshole mask I've perfected over the years. “Of course.”
He tips his head to the side and looks at the entryway, where the office door is cracked to reveal a slice of light. “I can't do anything for him, but there is still hope for her.”
I blink. “Really?” Shit. I thought they were both dead.
I stare down at my hands, expecting them to be coated in blood, every sin visible for the world to see.
“Sebastian, right?”
I blink again, looking up from my hands to stare into the storm-gray eyes of the doctor. He shines his penlight across my face a couple of times. “Nod if you can hear me, Sebastian.”
“Of course I can hear you.” I jerk away and shift back onto the couch, putting ample space between us. If I snap again, all hell will break loose.
Fuck, man, get ahold of yourself.
“What’s the plan, Doc?”
He tilts his head to study me, and I force myself to return his scrutiny with a calm I don’t feel. I don’t have a clue what he's thinking right now, but I need him to take care of…them. Not me. Finally, his eyes narrow, and he rises, seeming to arrive at a decision.
“Nothing. Sit here.”
He crosses the room to the bar and grabs a bottle of expensive whiskey, then walks it back over to me and shoves it into my hands. With a brief nod at the bottle, he turns and strides away, walking back to the foyer.
I swallow thickly around the knot in my throat. I can see her from here, her dark hair fanned out against the white marble like a raven in the snow.
And creeping beneath that, the blood.
Fuck. My stomach churns, and I wonder if I’m going to vomit. Pussy. This isn’t my first time seeing death and destruction, but seeing her blood spilled across the floor in my family’s name…I can’t bear it.
The doctor opens the door wider and kneels beside her unmoving body. The world around me spins, and I need something to hold me in place. Using my teeth, I uncork the whiskey bottle and toss the stopper to the side, then raise the bottle to my lips with a shaking grasp. I tip the bottle back, letting the liquid fill my mouth. It burns across my tongue and slides smoothly down my throat.
I ignore the burn and the nearly dead girl in the next room and chug that shit like it's water until I have to take a breath; then I cradle the bottle against my thigh and slump farther into the couch, wishing it would swallow me whole.
Soft murmuring and a whimper carry in from the other room. The sound cuts through me like a knife, eliciting something close to an ache in my chest. My fist tightens around the bottle.
No. I can’t do this. I’m part of this world now, and a woman’s soft cry isn’t supposed to affect me this way. I need to be stronger, to close it all down, to shove it deep inside until all there is, all I am, is what’s best for me and my family name.