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 wears that same polished concern whenever she plans to interfere and call it care. It worked better when I was younger, before I learned the price you pay each time someone claims they’re protecting you.
Bracing one hand on the table, she looks at me. “I won’t be spoken to like this.”
My mouth twitches.
The vein in her forehead is about one smart ass response away from exploding.
“You’re out of control!” She gasps. I’d laugh if I could be fucked.
I hold her stare. “You have no idea.”
There’s a battle that stirs within her, her mouth opening and closing as she weighs up her options. She knows better than to go toe-to-toe with me.
“Here’s what’s going to happen from now.” My tone stays level, borderline bored. “You’re going to leave this house, and trust that I’m doing what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”
Camille sucks in a deep breath, her spine snapping straight. “Ash—”
I lift my hand to stop her from making an even bigger fool of herself than she already has. Ivy is fucking smart, more than that, she’s street smart. Camille’s antics tonight would have been nothing more than entertainment to her.
Aléia stares back at me like I’ve spoken a different language. What the fuck is she thinking? That I’ll change my mind? I won’t. She’s lucky I’m letting her walk out of here at all.
She turns her back to me and storms toward the exit.
Guess that’s her answer.
Camille rushes after her, no doubt to attempt to calm her down. With good reason. Most people who know Aléia spend a great deal of time not upsetting her.
With just Atlas, Mom, Sinead and me left, I relax into my chair and let my eyes move over each of them one by one.
“This? It’s got a shelf life. And that shit’s expiring a lot sooner than any of you fuckers think. So stay in line.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
IVY
I’m hellbent on finding an outlet before I trip and land on a Jameson dick. Can’t decide which brother would be worse.
Actually… it’s still Asher.
Slipping out of my bedroom, I try to remember where Atlas said the gym was as I tiptoe through the kitchen.
Ah, outside. That’s right.
I slide open the doors that lead onto the patio and step out into the cold snap of a Veilarath morning. Warmer clothes would have been ideal, sure, but I’d be lying if I said my blood wasn’t still hot from last night.
I’ve never lacked verbal stamina and can spar with about anyone, but who I decide to step into the ring with is the real question. For one? I have to care about you, or about what the conversation is about, or, on the rare occasion, I’m starved of endorphins from not being put out on a job in a while. All but one was true last night.
Toward the landing of the slope, a smaller building of glass sits almost buried beneath snow. There. That has to be what Atlas was talking about.
I crack the door open. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, treadmills lining one wall, weight machines crowding the other. A punching bag hangs in the corner by itself, and I drop my phone and water beside the nearest table, climbing onto the treadmill.
Opening Spotify, I hit play on whatever song and start with a jog, goosebumps breaking over my skin as my body warms into its rhythm.
I showed too many cards last night. Too much emotion. Emeric would be disgusted. I jack the treadmill up to ten and run like I’m being hunted, sweat gathering at my collarbone before dripping onto the belt.
The miles fall away into the nothingness, and I let the music swallow me whole until it’s just stride, warmth, and that deep burn in my lungs. When my muscles start to wobble with fatigue, I hit the red button, and the machine eases down into silence.
I jump off, snatch up my phone, and stalk toward the bag, an old D12 track pounding through my ears as I work the glove over one hand.
My phone lights with an Instagram notification.
I stop cold.
My Instagram has never been private, but I only turned notifications back on this morning after Khloe tagged me in every photo from last night.
I tap the screen and the app opens.
Punk handled my social media in those first years with Asher. We were never that worried. Even if people went digging, they wouldn’t get far. Not that I ever hid who I was, because that’s not how Playhouse works. You’re yourself the whole time. It’s the foundation life that gets the fake name. Your so-called real life.
I close the app after I lose track of the comments. I need research. I need to be Punk, Leon, and Luce crammed into one body if I’m going to survive whatever the hell I’ve landed in. If I didn’t have family, I probably wouldn’t care. I took out Parker. That was my mission, the single thing my whole life had narrowed to. But I can’t let the people I love get buried in the fallout because my stupid heart ran after a boy with a pretty smile and eyes that see into my soul.