Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
“I’m not asking you to save me.” Jake comes out of the stall with the confidence of a firstborn.
He might be the thirdborn on paper, but he does deserve to be sole heir. In more ways than one. He has boundaries he won’t cross and virtues he upholds. He genuinely cares about the people in this town, and maybe this means more to me now that I know I’m a Wolfe. My family founded Victoria with his, and the need to safeguard it has been intensifying inside me.
Still, of all the wealthy circles I’ve infiltrated, I’ve rarely seen men like Jake rise to the top. He has the pedigree to claim billions, but not the teeth to protect it. Not when others are more cutthroat and will do what he won’t. Manipulate, sell their souls, fuck over anyone to line their pockets and succeed.
I will give him some credit. Jake isn’t beyond cutting deals with devils. Or else he wouldn’t have enlisted our help to take down his family.
Using his bicep, he wipes sweat off his brow. “You have a responsibility to protect your siblings and Phoebe and the rest of the Graveses, but you don’t need to worry about me like you do them.”
I narrow a look at him. He’s exuding “older brother” energy toward me right now, and I’m not sure I love it. But I also don’t hate it. Probably because he’s right. I don’t have a responsibility to him the way that I do the others.
Ever since we included Jake in the family business, it’s been an odd change—but not a bad fit. Feels more like packing an extra gun at the hip.
I lean on a wooden post where rope is hung. “I’m not worried about you. For you, maybe. I doubt you’d do well in jail.”
“I’d survive,” he says simply. “And I promise you’ll get paid once my funds are untied. Whatever I have.” He owes us all a million each for the job that killed his mother, but that was under the stipulation that he inherited everything.
That never happened.
The only one scrambling for that payout is Everett Tinrock, the godfather. He believes it’s owed, no matter the outcome, but we all would rather finish the job before squeezing Jake.
Trent is a disease on this town. On Jake. On Phoebe. On me.
It’s personal. I don’t even care about the money. I’m not sure I ever really did.
“Don’t rush to the bank” is all I say.
He nods, understanding. His gaze softening.
We hear a loud bang, and our heads whip to the left. “That was a shotgun,” I say.
“Skeet shooting,” Jake guesses. “It sounds like they’re hitting clay pigeons, or we’d hear screams.” We’re both more tense.
Claudia Waterford laid out an extremely messy division of assets in her will. One term: Trent and Jake were to split the Koning estate. She must’ve fantasized about her sons living together in harmony under one roof.
There is no harmony here. It’s mayhem and debauchery most nights. What’s become of the estate would make a frat house look civilized. And I’ve had a front-row seat to the temper tantrum. Jake refused to sign over his half of the estate to Trent, so Trent did what any big brother would do. He threw a party. And another. And another.
His attempt to annoy Jake into giving away his rights to the mansion and land—it’s juvenile. Laughable. And highly fucking irritating.
I push off the post. “He wants you gone, sweetheart.”
“I’m not leaving. I’m not selling him the estate, and he’s not accepting any offer I make so I can buy it from him.” They’re at a cold standstill, and Jake was advised by his legal team to live at the estate full-time.
So he’s been sharing a house with Trent. Albeit, twenty-five-thousand square feet of space, but space nonetheless. Trent already told me he was invited to summer at Stonehaven, and if he accepts, then Jake will, too.
I don’t want Trent at Stonehaven. I don’t want him anywhere near Phoebe, but it might be better to have him around Varrick. He’s like gangrene, and I want Varrick to deal with this infection.
“If Trent keeps throwing parties here, you need to start playing as dirty as your brother,” I counsel. “Or else he’s going to do something that you won’t survive.”
Jake is frustrated. He pulls at the drenched button-down that suctions to his chest. “I can’t be like him, Grey.”
“Your moral backbone isn’t going to win you the estate, Jake.”
He scrapes a hand through his light brown hair. “What should I do?”
“Make his life hell, for starters. Cut the Wi-Fi. Have construction workers banging outside his bedroom window. You could be doing reno while he’s sleeping. Instead, all week you’ve been letting him pass out all day and party all night.”
He considers this. “I wish I could just call the cops.”