Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Hmm.
I tilt my head to the side to watch him closely. Blond beard, taller than average. Bulky, too. Scarred hands. Army background? No. Prison?
How do I find out more about him without garnering suspicion? Should I ask a guard to spy on them?
Dad specifically told me not to go into investigative mode and just enjoy this camp, but that’s simply impossible.
However, the guards are under clear orders from Dad and won’t listen to my instructions if I choose to infiltrate the other side.
I need to figure out a different method—
My feet still when a black ball rolls into view, stopping dead in the middle of the invisible line dividing our side from the Chicago Bratva’s. The patrolling guards freeze mid-step, rifles snapping up, barrels tracking the harmless-looking object as it rocks lazily on the dirt.
Bang!
The blast rips through the stillness, echoing off the wooden walls, rattling the air. I move before thought can catch up, striding toward the balcony, my hand sliding to the familiar weight at my waistband. My fingers graze cold steel, but I stop short of drawing.
I shove open the balcony door and am met with a burst of laughter—raw, unbothered, and out of place in the charged quiet that follows an explosion. A guy about my age darts out from behind a massive oak, a small wired device clutched in his hand.
His white sleeveless shirt, smudged with dirt and torn at the edges, has a ragged hole in the side, and his jeans are ripped at the knees. His dark hair is a mess of waves falling over his forehead, and his skin is marred with lacerations—on his elbow, his cheek, his hands. Like he rolled down the mountain. Or fought a bear and half won.
“Yulik!” The bark comes from the bald-headed leader.
A nerve twitches in his temple, the skin flushing red as his glare locks on the guy he called by the diminutive of his name.
Yulik.
Yulian Dimitriev.
I’ve heard the stories about the infamous son of Yaroslav Dimitriev. Didn’t expect him to look like the human embodiment of a migraine.
“Sick new device, right?” His laugh—split by a busted lip—cuts through the air, sounding unfazed by the rifles still aimed in his general direction. “I came up with it. Cy helped a little.”
“A lot.” Another guy leans against the tree, lazily chewing a toothpick.
I narrow my gaze.
I didn’t hear anything about a Cy or even a Cyrus joining this camp. He wasn’t on any list from their side. Which makes him something I don’t like—
A variable.
Scorpion Tattoo Man’s voice hardens, dripping with irritation. “We were seconds away from shooting at each other. Do you realize how reckless that was?”
My thoughts match his word for word. In a place that’s strung tight over a fragile truce, his stunt wasn’t just reckless—it was a spark in a room full of gunpowder. All it would’ve taken was one twitch of a finger, and we’d be stacking bodies.
“Nah.” Yulian shrugs, his voice light, almost mocking. “No one’s stupid enough to be the first to pull the trigger and blow up this peace.” His grin widens as he calls out, “Cy! Looks hot as fuck!”
A black hole—that’s what looks hot as fuck to this lunatic.
Might call my dad and tell him we’re done here, and we should wrap it up.
“Don’t mind Yulian.” The house manager who’s standing in the doorway tries to smooth things over, his tone apologetic. “He’s…” He hesitates, his face tinting red before he finishes, “Never mind. He enjoys defying logic and gravity for some reason.”
“For some reason,” I echo, not caring what that might be.
“You should go change before we meet the New York kids,” Cy says to Yulian.
The latter glances at himself—dirt, blood, smudges of black powder staining his fingers—then smirks. “I’m perfectly presentable.”
The sound I make isn’t quite a laugh. More like a scoff edged with disgust. It ripples through the air loudly enough for both Cyrus and the guards to look up.
Yulian’s head lifts last.
He stares up at me, and I look down from the balcony, standing taller because I was taught to always present myself as the most powerful from the get-go.
The most dominant.
Yulian’s lips curve and it’s lopsided, as if he’s intrigued. Maybe entertained.
By what?
He holds my gaze, and I stare square into his creepy eyes. One is pale blue, and the other is dark brown, like a drop of ocean in the middle of a forest. A touch of mud on ice.
It’s disturbing.
But somehow…slightly riveting. I’ve never seen such a mismatch before.
Of course, someone like him would be a paradox of epic proportions. I’ve done enough research on Yulian Dimitriev to know what I’m dealing with, and he seems to be an absolute wreck of a person in every sense of the word.
He runs toward the cottage at full speed, and I expect him to come inside, so I get ready to leave, which will force him to follow me around, begging for scraps of my attention.