Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Father ignores them both.
“You have one week to find Thor’s hammer.” His voice is sharp, heavy. “Remove anyone who stands in your way. Destroy them all for what they took from us, Rey. The Eriksons, every last one. But don’t be quick about it.” His voice draws into a low command. “Make them suffer.”
“How do you know Aric has it?” Sigurd’s more powerful. Why wouldn’t the Giants keep it with him?
“I know.” He raises his voice. I try not to flinch. “Because his parents hid it. Last mistake I ever made.” He clenches his jaw. “Your job isn’t to ask questions. It’s to do what I ask.”
I nod in agreement. That’s all anyone can do around this man if they hope to keep their head. I don’t know why I thought asking him would help at all. At least he didn’t say it was all my fault.
It would have been nice to ask Laufey for intel before starting this mission, since she’s a Giant herself, but my father would never allow it. She fears his anger so much, she’s left the room any time I’ve so much as mentioned the Eriksons. Even thinking about what Father might do to her in my absence has my stomach turning.
I almost flinch when he leans in and brushes a hand down my cheek, kisses me on my forehead. A soft brush devoid of comfort. “I’m proud. You know that, right? Out of all my children…you are the most worthy.”
I know he’s trying to compliment me, but it feels more like a curse.
Stepping back, he drops his hand. “Rowen will have the car brought around in a minute. Gather your things and let’s be off. I’ve waited too long for this moment and do not relish further delay.” With that, he walks away, his cane slapping against the marble floor in a rhythm that dares me to follow.
I grit my teeth, shove the crumpled note from Laufey deep into my jeans pocket. I haven’t read it yet, but I don’t need to. I’m sure it’s begging me to give up this mission. Pointless.
Reaching down, I grab my new rucksack, then throw it over my shoulder. Father’s right. Might as well get this over with as quickly as possible.
Within minutes, we’re both settled in the back seat of a sleek black Mercedes sedan, Rowen expertly taking the turn that will lead us onto the highway out of Bellevue, Washington—toward the town of Everett, Endir University, and my freshman year.
I stare at the rain pelting the windshield, the wiper blades whooshing back and forth. Someone nearby lays on their horn, and I want to rage at them: they don’t know how good they have it. I wish my worst day was encountering a bad driver.
But pain is pain—it doesn’t care about rank. It just exists. And knowing someone, somewhere, carried more of it than I did…that’s the only thing that got me through the last two years.
I’m in this mess because of who my father is—what he’s capable of and what’s been done on both sides of this war. Some might say it’s because I was born special.
They’d be wrong.
In fact, the real reason I’m here is because of how not special I am. Or at least, how unimpressive one person in particular found me.
My heart races as a flash of warm brown eyes crosses my mind. No, not warm. I run my finger across the faint scars on my knuckles and focus on the traffic.
Rowen’s knowing gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror, then flicks away. Typical. I stare at his thick blond waves brushing his shoulders, like staring at something solid will help me forget how splintered we are underneath.
I don’t remember when exactly Rowen became my closest friend. He just was—one day not there, the next day orbiting my life like a second moon. He moved in three years ago, probably right after graduating high school, but we never talked about hobbies or birthdays or any of the things normal people compare to feel less alone. Sharing space under my father’s roof was enough. Trauma bonds faster than time.
And now, after today, I’ll likely never see him again.
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach as beside me, my father snaps open a newspaper, like phones and social media don’t exist. Every few seconds, he clears his throat and adjusts his tie with his right hand—the one with the tattoos that tell the world exactly who he is, if they’re privileged enough to know what the runes mean on all five of his murderous fingers.
Even to a casual observer, the markings look dark and menacing. Because of course they do. He likes the attention.
At the end of the day, I know what sort of hand those tattoos belong to. One of authority, terror, and power. I wonder what it says about me that my first daydreams were about cutting his fingers off.