Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Sitting quietly at my side as I indulge in one too many heavy foods.
Grinding his jaw when a new message from Holland—making sure I made it home okay and reminding me about Friday—rolls in when I’m tucking into bed.
Staring at me as I sleep, even though the pillow on my bed is rounded, cold, and empty.
Alyssa isn’t home, and yet, I feel wildly un-alone.
I can’t shake the feeling that something is brewing beneath the surface of my life. And worse yet, I get the sense I’m not in control of it at all.
Rook
The worst part about knowing what’s coming is that nobody believes you enough to act until it’s too late. Because everything looks the same—for now. Because the danger is theoretical—for now.
Because it’s too much work and worry to imagine routine won’t continue untouched.
Concordia is still Concordia. The roads still wind through pines and fog, and Murray’s Pub still glows like an outsider on the corner of McMansion Street and Fuckoffwealth Way.
Vampires and humans alike live their lives like they aren’t being rearranged by forces they don’t even know exist.
But the shift is imminent anyway; I can feel it.
For years and years, vampires have been letting their mates be stolen out from under their noses by the elites and their gofers—all because of tradition. Because of entitlement from the top, and their assumed ownership over the three most potent human bloodlines, despite the universe’s clear direction otherwise.
The blood of the three and the elites’ need to hoard it wasn’t on my top ten list to care about.
But now, the ritual continues with Kylie Moon.
The flat tire last night wasn’t a question. The text messages today served a purpose. And Holland being at Murray’s Pub tonight when Kylie was there was a calculated move.
And holy fuck, do I care.
I should be home relishing my woodworking hobby or losing myself in the mindless literature of eighteenth-century aristocrats, but because I can’t get rid of the bow in my back or the knife in my chest, I’m here instead, trying to find the words to turn my brothers’ worlds upside down.
Cal’s garage is quiet at this time of night, save the buzz from the overhead lights and the faint thump of nineties hip-hop playing through the speakers. Tools hang on the wall all around, and the concrete below our feet reeks of oil and rubber and metal.
Kane pushes back from the old ’69 Camaro we’ve been working on, wiping his hands on a rag and eyeing me closely. He can feel the pulse of my need to speak well before the words even form in my throat, as it’s always been his gift to preemptively read intent.
Calloway leans against a workbench, arms crossed, watching me too. Their patience to stay quiet and wait for me to spit it out is waning, however, and Kane is the first to break it.
“You’re spiraling,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
He barks a laugh. “You’re never fine. You’re just more or less homicidal, and right now, you’re wielding six knives, four swords, and a guillotine.”
I drag a hand down my jaw, forcing myself to find some semblance of control as the text from Holland to Kylie he sent five minutes ago rolls around in my mind.
I shouldn’t be able to sense what he says to her. Shouldn’t be able to hear their conversations from afar or read his texts without being included in the chain. I shouldn’t be able to hear her thoughts like I did this morning in her driveway—or like I did tonight as she thought sensuously about putting her lips to her coffee.
And yet…I can.
Hope you made it home okay, Kylie. And don’t forget about Friday, okay? I’d really love to take you to the event.
The words sit in my head like a bruise I keep pressing just to see if it still hurts. They’re dangerous—Holland is dangerous—and I know with an instinct I can’t shake that time is running out.
“You’re burning tracks in Cal’s concrete,” Kane says. “Just spit it out, bro. Say what you really want to say.”
I stop pacing at once, my decision made. I can’t stand by and let it happen. Not to her.
I won’t.
And then, I say it. The three words that are an open door to chaos and change we won’t come back from. The three words my brothers won’t be able to ignore.
“They’ve chosen her.”
Of course, the words land hard.
Kane paid witness to Holland’s intention tonight, and Cal’s heard the curiosity at the rink with his super hearing himself, but my saying this—putting this fine a point on the endgame—dials the stakes up to an eleven.
Calloway straightens. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?” Cal asks. “We haven’t been keeping an eye on Holland for that long. We haven’t been—”
“I don’t need long,” I cut him off. “I don’t need proof, Cal. I know.”
Calloway’s eyes narrow. “How?”