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)
Their mother? No one’s ever mentioned a mother. Not online, not on record.
“She likes a private life,” Asher murmurs from the corner, as if reading my mind. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could at this point.
I settle into the sofa as Elea glides in from the kitchen, a tray balanced in her grip.
“I thought you could use a drink.” She halts in front of me, her expression warm. “Asher told me about your Nonna.”
She sets the tray on the table, lifting two martini glasses. The edges of her eyes soften as she reaches up, threading a finger gently through my hair. “So beautiful.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
Goddammit, Asher. He could have filled me in on what I’m doing here. I’m always playing house, but this is the first time I don’t know the script.
Gin spreads a slow heat through my chest, releasing all the tension I'd been holding.
“Your sister wants to start planning her birthday party earlier this year.” She stirs the liquid in her glass.
Atlas moves to the spot on the other side of me, and I fight the urge to ask him what the fuck he’s doing. “She’s a brat, that’s why.”
Elea turns her attention to her son. “You are in no place to be grading your sister for her bratty antics, since she most certainly learned them from you.”
I cough, swiping the gin from my lip.
Sister… that’s right. I almost forgot they had one.
“Aw, what’s the matter?” Camille purrs from beside Asher, her eyes on mine. Not sure they’ve left since I walked in here. “Cat got your tongue?”
I don’t have the energy or the brain cells to respond, but my mouth opens to reply anyway. “I wouldn’t call him a cat, no…”
Elea rests her hand on my knee, and some of the static under my skin eases.
Who are these people. What the hell is happening…
I stand quickly, setting my glass on the coffee table and dip straight through whatever weird little family tribunal they have going.
“Sorry.” I force my best smile, gesturing down the hall. “I’ll be a minute.”
I move at a pace that would make any suspicious person, very suspicious, past the hall and under the stairs until I find the bathroom, slipping inside, and locking the door behind me.
It’s small enough to gather my thoughts, but the designs are the same as everywhere else in this house. Concrete and hard.
Shutting my eyes, I grip the counter. One glance at my own face in the mirror and I’ll either laugh or scream. Neither option seems ideal given the situation unfolding in the other room.
I breathe in, and out. Apparently we’re doing breathing exercises now. Love that for me. One ambient Spotify playlist away from a nervous system reset.
One. Two. Three.
Nonna’s blood, Luce’s screams, the body being dragged…
By seven my pulse is still trying to claw out through my throat. By nine I already know ten won’t fix anything, and I’ll need an entirely different number system and possibly an exorcist.
Pull it together.
Asher.
What do I remember about him, and what do I know now? Memories are muddled. Most of them my own doing, since I forced them behind a brick wall after I thought I killed him.
I type out a new message to Luce.
Do you know anyone else like us? Families I mean?
It’s far-fetched. Not something we’ve ever spoken of, Nonna included, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the first time that it crossed my mind.
There isn’t. There are other corporations, sure, but none that fall under the same umbrella of a Playhouse. Why?
Another text comes through.
Even if that were the case, it’s impossible. Both live entirely too much in the spotlight to have any anonymity, and we all know that’s the only non-negotiable. Also… we know every other Family there is.
I shove my phone back into my pocket.
She’s right. I’m reaching.
A door opens and I roll my eyes, already bracing for Atlas, but the silhouette that fills the frame turns my blood hot.
Asher shuts the door behind himself, his gaze locking onto me.
He looks hot. Too fucking hot. Every second around him is a war I’ll never win.
“Not really up for the fight.” I pretend to fix my lipstick. Now that he’s in front of me, I can’t form the words I wanted to say. “Maybe go fight with Camille, since she’s always around.”
His hand lands on my throat, but I slap it away before he’s gripped it and swing with my right. He catches my fist faster than I expect, trapping it without effort.
I’m a better fighter than most, even Leon on a good day. There’s no way some rich snowboarder can block and hold. Yet another thing about him that doesn’t add up.
He uses my captured fist to tug me closer as his other hand finds my throat. The corner of his mouth curls as he glares down at me, and any other woman would wilt under the force of that stare, but I know better.