Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
The scar, though. That will be there forever.
Proof of what I did to protect her.
Proof of what she cost me.
Emmaleen folds herself into the passenger seat with all the elegance of a giraffe in a phone booth, legs bent at weird angles before she finally manages to tuck them beneath the dashboard. "I’m not finished explaining—"
"You are."
The door closes with finality. She submitted. All the attitude, all the performance of independence, and still—she folded at a two-word command. Easier than expected. Disturbing, actually. For someone so determined to defy me, she capitulates with alarming speed when faced with actual authority. The contradiction doesn't align with the profile I've built. It suggests complexity I haven't accounted for.
The Aventador's interior enfolds us in a cocoon of engineered perfection, while outside, the raindrops skate across the windshield in organized rivulets before the wipers eliminate them with mechanical efficiency. The world beyond is muted, distant, irrelevant.
Emmaleen is neither muted nor distant.
"—and it's not like I had any way of knowing you'd be picking me up, ya know? I mean, I was gonna try the restaurant apartment first—do you realize we never exchanged numbers? How ridiculous is that? Anyway, Sister Margaret gave all my clothes away, so half my stuff is probably being worn by someone else right now, and I had to—"
I allow the engine's purr to deepen as we pull away from the curb. The steering wheel feels cool and solid beneath my grip—a welcome counterpoint to the verbal hurricane beside me. Fifteen seconds of acceleration, and we're moving through Riverview's rain-slicked streets, each reflection in the puddles we pass distorted but precise.
"—tried calling the hospital to thank the nurses, but they said you'd paid everyone to forget I was ever there, which is both impressive and slightly terrifying, and—"
I keep my gaze fixed on the road, breathing in the specific rhythm I developed during negotiations in Moscow. Four seconds in. Seven seconds hold. Eight seconds out. The technique has talked me through standoffs with Bratva captains. It should be sufficient for one chattering woman.
"—couldn't even get my prescription filled because apparently that would leave a paper trail, and I don't know if you realize how painful concussions can be without proper—"
Her words bounce off the soundproofed interior, finding no purchase. I remain silent, fingers steady on the wheel, posture perfect. The side mirror catches rain in patterned streaks, symmetrical and clean. The windshield wipers move in metronomic sweeps.
She pauses, waiting for acknowledgment. Finding none, she continues, but slower now, her momentum faltering.
"I just... I thought maybe we could..." Her voice trails off. Uncertainty creeps in, diluting her indignation. "Are you even listening?"
I make no indication that I've heard her. The question hangs in the air, growing heavier with each passing second.
Her fingers drum against her thigh, then stop. She shifts in her seat. Clears her throat. Fidgets with the hem of that atrocious blazer. Finally, silence descends, uncomfortable for her, satisfying for me.
I watch her reflection in the side window glass. The pink of her ridiculous jacket bleeds into the gray morning like a wound. She looks small against the perfection of German engineering and Italian design, a chaotic element in a precisely calibrated environment. Like wind rattling against a perfectly tuned machine.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Bites her lower lip. Gives up.
The quiet victory settles over me. She can be taught. She can be corrected. Even without words, without touch, without direct consequence—she can be shaped by the mere application of expectation.
I imagine her transformed. Not this babbling, disorganized creature, but someone disciplined. Someone who moves with intention rather than impulse. Someone who understands the power of restraint, of silence.
Someone I could break and rebuild according to the Doctrine.
The Aventador's tires connect with the private drive. Gates part with silent efficiency as we approach, recognizing the car's signature, bowing to technology.
Emmaleen shifts in her seat. Her fidgeting has evolved from defiance to discomfort as we trace the long curve of the driveway, each bend revealing more of what waits ahead.
The mansion rises against the mid-September sky—1892 Gothic Revival, built when the mines were booming and fortunes seemed infinite. Four stories of limestone and precision, crowned with a slate roof that absorbs the gray morning like it was designed for it. Large bricks laid in precise courses, weathered to the color of old blood. Sharp angles and deliberate shadows. Gothic arches frame windows designed to observe rather than welcome. Rain slides down the façade in controlled streams, caught by copper gutters that have aged to verdigris perfection.
I park precisely where I always do, the front tire aligned with the third paver from the left. When I exit, I don't look back. The door closing behind me is enough punctuation for anyone paying attention.
Her footsteps follow, delayed by hesitation, then quickening to catch up. The sound of her sneakers against the wet pavement lacks the authority of proper footwear, but the rhythm tells me everything I need to know. She's following. Of course she is.