Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Kane pulls his cock out of my mouth, and to my horror, it’s still half erect.
He hits me with it on the mouth. “Lick it clean.”
I grab him at the base and lick the skin, swiping my tongue over his length and sucking the tip into my mouth while maintaining intense eye contact. I probably continue the show longer than necessary.
Kane watches me the entire time, his eyes darkening, his finger twitching on the back of my head.
Then, all of a sudden, he pulls his dick from my grip, tucks himself in, and buttons his pants.
The motion takes me by surprise, so I just sit there and watch, my ears still filled with a dizzying buzz and my head floating somewhere else.
Kane lowers himself on his haunches in front of me, and I stare at him, panting. He seizes my chin and before I can think of what he’s doing, he leans in and swipes his tongue from the corner of my mouth to my left eye.
Then he does it again on the right side, his tongue leaving tingles and goosebumps behind.
Is he…licking my tears?
What the…?
He stands up, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Don’t cry. It makes me hard.”
12
KANE
The drive to my parents’ house is quick and nearly mindless.
I push my Porsche 911 Turbo S to its limits up the Hill, but I have full control over the vehicle. Which can’t be said about the rest of the fucking night.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel as the house looms like a shadow at the top of Ravenswood Hill—an isolated fortress hidden deep within the trees.
The long, winding driveway is flanked by towering oaks, their branches stretching overhead like skeletal fingers. The car’s tires crunch against the gravel as I approach my old asylum, the sound muted under the oppressive weight of the night. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, mingled with a faint metallic tang that always lingers in the forest.
I kill the engine and step out of the car. Cold bites into my skin, the crisp night air sharp against my face. My breath forms clouds in front of me as I walk toward the house, the soft thud of my shoes on the stone path the only sound breaking the silence. I’ve made this walk countless times, but it still feels like willingly getting trapped in a cave.
As soon as I got into college, I bought a penthouse in the town center just to distance myself from this hellhole, but one can’t escape his last name.
Or the fuckery that comes with it.
The Davenport compound is an expansive mansion made of dark stone, ivy crawling up its weathered exterior like veins. Its windows are black voids, reflecting nothing. The front door is heavy, creaking slightly as I push it open. Inside, the air is cooler and restrictive. The scent of aged wood and leather fills my nostrils, familiar yet suffocating.
Every stone of this house has witnessed generations of power-hungry, duty-bound, and control-freak Davenports. Their portraits line the long hallway I’m walking through, a reminder of the generational wealth and souls sold to the Devil.
The dim orange lighting casts eerie shadows along the walls, the weight of my ancestors’ hollow gazes pressing down on me with each step.
I pause by a tall window that overlooks the dark expanse of the Japanese garden below and the forest in the distance. The rustle of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl drift into the hall. My reflection stares back at me, expressionless and distorted in the glass, like the perfect machine I’ve been shaped into.
No emotions.
No fucking attachment.
No other human being is allowed to have a hold on me.
No. One.
“Kane?”
I slide my left hand into my pocket and slowly rotate to face the woman who gave birth to me.
She’s dressed in a white silk gown and a matching robe, her ghost-like appearance fitting the house.
Helena Davenport was a striking beauty in her youth but now carries the weariness of a life spent in quiet suffering. Her once-lustrous dark hair has thinned and gradually turned silver at the scalp. It’s swept into a simple but elegant bun, a remnant of her former sophistication. Her almond-shaped eyes, icy blue like mine, rarely show emotion, as though the weight of her depression has drained her ability to feel.
She walks silently toward me, her posture always slightly hunched as if burdened by invisible chains. Helena is slender but frail, as though a gust of wind could shatter her. Unless she’s forced to by social obligations, she seldom engages with the world outside her private quarters, where she often remains hidden, staring at the same old book she never finishes or talking to the koi fish in the garden pond.
“Hello, Mother.” I paint a smile on my face and bend down so she can hug me.