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)
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes at where she’s crawling into a ball in the corner. “That’s barely a fucking graze.”
Asher groans, massaging his temples before his chair crashes backward. He’s on his feet, crossing the room in three strides.
My eyes swing to Camille as I cross the distance, ignoring Asher. “I’d suggest you leave unless Aléia is good with having your body delivered to her in tiny little pieces.” I straddle her with both feet planted on either side, waving the gun in the air. “You know Jord? Yeah, Jord. He’s very good at his cleaning job. Not a speck of dirt left behind.”
“Venom,” Asher growls from behind me. “You aren’t following the rules.”
“Oops.” I shrug, turning over my shoulder. “Guess I don’t fucking care.”
Khloe’s trying not to laugh, but when her eyes land on her brother she straightens.
“You’ve lost your goddamn mind,” Asher’s voice deepens. The fact that he seems so upset only infuriates me more.
“You want the house?” I look between him and Camille. “Take it. You want to parade your little pet around in front of me? Fine, but she can fucking limp.”
“Ivy...” Khloe murmurs, but it’s too late. Everything I’ve kept locked down detonates, ricocheting through my veins until I can’t tell fury from heartbreak.
The door swings open again, and Atlas steps inside, whistling when he takes in the carnage. “Good to see you again, Ivy. This—” he gestures around the room. “Very on-brand.”
Asher glares at his brother.
Atlas shrugs. “What? She’s consistent at least.”
I’m about to turn toward the door, when Devon’s gaze locks on something behind me.
Camille.
Me.
A fucking gun.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The color drains from his face, leaving two spots of color on his cheeks.
Oh well. What better time?
The trigger gives beneath my finger, sending a shot through the quiet. Another follows, both recoiling against my hand
Blood spreads across Devon’s shirt as he staggers backward, dropping with a thud.
“Completed.” Lowering my arm, I loosen my fingers around the grip. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m leaving.”
“You’re not fucking going anywhere,” Asher snaps, stopping me.
“I’m not in the mood to argue further with you tonight, Asher.” I keep my back to him.
His footsteps strike the floor behind me.
“Okay!” Khloe claps , derailing whatever Asher had planned when he reached me. Most likely murder.
Khloe’s grabs me by my elbow, unhooking her jacket off the stand. “Everyone who is bleeding can sort themselves out.” She looks down to Devon. “At least those who are still alive.”
She perks up like nothing happened. “I’m taking my sister-in-law for a drink.”
Right. Because legally, I’m still fucking married.
Atlas makes a noise from behind us, but we ignore him, and Khloe pulls me through the door when I don’t move.
Cold air hits my face.
I inhale, letting the scent of frost-covered pine and salt water fill my lungs, and with every breath, the knots in my muscles begin to loosen.
“Good shot, by the way,” Khloe says, steering us toward her car. “Both times. But you missed Camille by a long fucking shot.”
We’re still laughing when a black car rolls to a stop in front of us, the engine a low hum under our noise.
Sinead leans across the passenger seat, their window already down. “Let me drive you. You know he’ll have my head if I don’t.”
I pull the door open. “Fine.”
We slide into the back, and the door shuts with a solid thunk before Sinead pulls away from the curb. They don’t ask for a destination, just turn the wheel and merge into the late-night.
I appreciate that more than they will know.
“Wait!” Khloe leans forward, grabbing the backpack on the opposite chair. “Did you…”
Sinead chuckles with a sigh. “Thought I might have needed to bribe you both, so I grabbed it from your car.”
Khloe’s pulling out clothes, thanking Sinead.
Their eyes meet mine in the mirror. “If it’s not obvious, I’m not a fan of Camille.”
I let Khloe shove a dress on me as headlights cut through the dark. Khloe yaps nonstop about a man she met in Paris who cried after sex. I go through the motions. The humming, the nodding, the laughing. Khloe doesn’t care if I’m not fully paying attention, she generally just likes to talk. Period.
We finally pull up to a curb outside a building with no signs, just a blank door and an orange light that beams down onto the road.
“Tourists never find it.” Khloe shrugs, already getting out. “Which means the drinks are cheaper and nobody’s filming.”
I’m out before she finishes the sentence.
Inside, the ceiling is low and the music loud enough to swallow conversation. Someone smokes a cigarette near the back, despite it being illegal everywhere. I order two shots of something green without reading the label and slide one to Khloe, who throws it back before I’ve even lifted mine.
Three drinks in, the edges of the room begin to soften.