Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
She shot you.
She let you bleed out.
She fucking lied.
She’s a puppet.
My fingers trace the thick scar banding my throat. There’s an old saying, les amants maudits. It’s more story than saying, but comes down to one singular thing. Fate. The rest is some romance about born enemies who can’t stay away from each other.
Bullshit. It’s all fucking bullshit.
Romance has fuck all to do with love. There’s nothing pretty about love. There’s no fucking butterflies. There’s pain in equal measure. Romance is the commercial, love is the sale. And I’m supposed to be the idiot who falls for the whole thing because she’s got eyes that bring me to my knees and a mouth sent to this earth just to torture me.
Atlas says something and her smile dies. Her shoulders straighten, stare unmoving. She’s concealing all her fears—despite her argument that she has none.
I know this tell.
I know all of her tells.
That’s the problem with falling for someone built to destroy you. You memorize the shit you shouldn’t because they’re all the things you love about them.
I know her better than I know myself.
And she used every fucking detail against me.
My phone buzzes on the desk. Camille’s name flashes, a string of messages I haven’t answered. I’ll let her wait. Let her wonder. She’s useful for exactly one thing right now, and it has everything to do with pissing off my little Venom.
Ivy shifts away from Atlas. She’s still talking, still moving, but it’s all performance now.
Ah. I see. She’s talking about me.
I see it when her mouth moves while her shoulders stay carefully neutral. She’s giving him just enough truth to make the lie sound real. That’s what she does. That’s what they trained her to do.
I crush the pen until it snaps.
Atlas heads for the door. As soon as she’s alone, she’ll do what she always does when she thinks no one is watching. Let the mask slip. And I’ll be here. Watching.
Always fucking watching…
A sharp knock hits the door, severing my thoughts. Sinead pushes through before I can respond. Very few people can enter this room without permission, and Sinead is all one of them.
They drop a parcel on my desk, ignoring Ivy moving across the monitor. Not that I hide anything from them anyway. Sinead already knows more than anyone else ever will, because why? Because fucking trust.
Ain’t that a funny thing…
“It was dropped at the gate,” Sinead says, nodding to it with a pierced brow.
I look up at them between inspecting the label. “By a courier, or a mail man?”
Sinead doesn’t answer which is an answer on its own.
I tear open the wrapper until the familiar box peeks out. Pressed into the leather are the words La Maison du Mal.
My fingers follow each letter, the design hand-drawn and old as fuck. I wonder how many people came before me and sat in this same spot.
I flip open the case, revealing the family blade. It’s about six inches long, curving at the tip. Dark leather wraps the handle, oiled to a shine.
Hello, old friend...
It’s been a year since I held it. Fifteen since my father did.
Before I can shove the memories away, salt water clings to my throat, and the deck is shifting beneath my boots. I grip the leather of the chair, only feeling the cold metal railing from the yacht instead. Waves strike the hull with a crack, dragging me back into the present.
Sinead gives me a weighted smile. “The House always likes to remind us of the torment they’ve created.”
I chuckle, because ain’t that some truth…
Atlas strolls through the door, carrying her scent along with him. Like she fucking marked him just to torment me.
My hand tightens around the knife as Atlas scans the desk, the open case, the monitor still lit with Ivy’s room, before zeroing in on me.
His mouth curves, because he’s Atlas and he can’t fucking help himself. He must say some dumb shit since Sinead burst out laughing.
I say nothing, keeping my stare locked on the screen where Ivy’s moving around her room. When the silence is almost awkward, I look back down to the knife.
Sinead jerks a thumb toward the door. “I better go check on Daniel. Make sure he’s comfortable.”
Atlas steps deeper into the office, kicking the door shut with his heel. “You gonna tell me why you’ve got her room up like a fucking livestream,” he says, quieter now, “or do I get to keep making jokes till you grow a personality again?”
I roll the knife once in my palm, setting it on the desk beside the journal I should really do a better job at hiding. “You seem real comfortable in there.”
Atlas leans one shoulder against the wall. “It’s Ivy.”
I look at him. “And?” His reply explains exactly nothing.
He doesn’t break away. “And it’s Ivy, Asher.”
On the monitor, Ivy pauses with the brush halfway through her hair, as if she can feel me watching.