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)
As expected, Grant releases me at five in the morning.
Not in person.
He made it clear last night.
“My son can’t be a failure, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” was all I said before he closed the door.
One of his aides unlocks my chains and leaves me stumbling.
As I ascend the stairs to the main house, I find Samuel waiting with a towel, his erect posture appearing ready to snap.
He’s a wrinkly old bald-headed man who’s been our butler for as long as I’ve been alive. He barely speaks, but he always comes in with a towel and prepares me a warm bath, tea, and a meal after my torture sessions.
He also always has a doctor on standby just in case.
Grant certainly doesn’t want his son and only heir to expire. Not after my uncle is now out of the picture, probably living his best life with that young boyfriend of his.
Sometimes, I think being banished isn’t a bad idea.
But then I remember that I can’t let Grant have it all.
I’m not as magnanimous as my uncle.
I thank Samuel as I step into the bath. Heat flows through me, melting away the chill, but my muscles still contract. So I submerge fully for a couple of minutes before I surface again.
“Sir. Your phone.” Samuel stands by the side of the tub and hands it over.
But he doesn’t leave.
I wrap my blue-tinted fingers around the device. “What is it?”
“Your mother wants to see you.”
“No. Keep her away. I’ll leave in half an hour.”
“Noted.”
He exits the bathroom, the huge ornate door closing behind him.
I lean back against the bathtub and open my phone.
Countless notifications pop onto the screen, and I’m about to delete them all when I notice a few texts.
I straighten up, the water sloshing around me.
Dahlia
I know you lost for the first time this season, but you did your best.
You’re kind of a control freak, so you’re probably taking this personally, but you shouldn’t. If anything, Preston needs to feel bad and ask for forgiveness on his knees. God, he was such a joke, especially in the third period. What a useless piece of shit.
Anyway, you’re the reason the Vipers didn’t get wiped out. Silver linings, right?
I throw my head back and laugh.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Without thinking, I stand up, dry myself, and get dressed.
Then I drive all the way to the town center and to Graystone General Hospital, where she spends most of her nights.
The head nurse and the staff bow upon seeing me, but I pay them no attention as I take the elevator up and walk to the room at the end of the hall.
Sure enough, Dahlia’s sleeping in a chair, her head awkwardly lolling on the bed next to a pale-faced comatose woman. Her laptop is open and a few textbooks are scattered chaotically on either side of her.
The steady beep, beep, beep of the machines is the only sound that echoes in the room.
I walk to her as if she’s ensnaring me with an invisible rope.
As I approach, I cast a look at the laptop screen.
A school project, countless research-related tabs…
What do we have here?
A tab with an article about tonight’s game is minimized at the bottom of the screen. I click on it and enlarge it.
“The Vipers Are Crushed by the Wolves in a Sensational Night.”
I scroll to find that she has an account and her username is—I kid you not—ColdAsKane. And this alter ego has already posted numerous comments.
“Oh, fuck off. Crushed. You sound like a fucking child who’s yapping for attention and clicks. There was no crushing, and the Vipers would’ve held out just fine if it weren’t for that bitch Armstrong.”
“Sensational? More like pathetic. The Wolves couldn’t ‘crush’ anything if they didn’t have the refs in their pockets.”
“Bitch, please. One game doesn’t define a season. Get your facts straight, morons.”
"Funny how a one-off win has Wolves fans foaming at the mouth. Desperate looks good on you.”
“The Wolves got lucky, but luck runs out. Vipers never do, motherfuckers.”
And when Wolves fans engaged, she was so passive-aggressive, calling them all sorts of names and trolling the hell out of them.
Jesus Christ.
She’s like the most toxic little hellion online, channeling the fans’ illogical feelings about games. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her curse this way in real life, but she’s proficient online.
It puts a smile on my face. At least she’s moved on from the Wolves and their bastard captain.
The thought that Osborn has had his hands on her before me makes me murderous.
I close the laptop and stroke a strand of hair that’s fallen on her face behind her ear.
She moans softly and leans into my palm, nuzzling her cheek as if she’s a dog.
This woman will be the death of me.
Her eyes blink open and she stares at me for a few seconds under the delicate early-morning light. The hazel slowly transforms into the clearest, most enchanting green.