Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Adios, California.
Time to go.
I grab the duffel bag already packed with cash, fake IDs, and burner phones. The .45 tucked against the fabric is more than a weapon. It’s my promise to finish this with blood.
I’m ready. I’ve been ready.
Everything I need is in my head. Names, faces, crimes—the people I’ve been watching, tracking, and planning to erase from existence. I was careful. Methodical. But I got too close. Touched a nerve. And now they’re hunting me.
I hunted them first.
Come for me, bitches.
They won’t find me where I’m going.
Sitka, Alaska.
I own a small, unassuming tattoo shop there. A shell business I’ve been using to clean money and make my digital sins look pure and legal. It was meant to be a safe house, a place to disappear if the walls caved in.
Time to cash in on that contingency plan.
They think I’m running. Cowards run.
I vanish. Slip between the cracks. Become the thing they fear most. The thing that doesn’t die.
As I stride toward the door, I take one last look at the carnage I’m leaving behind. Scattered wires. Destroyed machines. The gutted remains of an empire I built from nothing.
I’ll rebuild.
Then I’ll make them bleed. I’ll engrave my vengeance into their bones. I’ll burn their world to the ground and laugh as they choke on the ashes.
I grip the door handle, and my gaze lands on a photograph. The one I intended to shred.
It lies on the desk, the edges curled and the glossy finish dulled with time. My head pounds as I reach for it, unable to part with it.
With her.
My pretty little bird.
She shouldn’t have this hold on me.
But she does.
She makes me feel. Reckless, terrible goddamn feelings. Feelings I don’t have room for.
I hate her for that.
I want to hurt her for it.
Beat her.
Bind her.
Fuck her.
My jaw flexes as I shove the photo into my pocket, crumpling it in my grip. I should leave it. I should burn it along with the rest.
But I’m not done with her.
Present day
The apartment at the rear of Kody’s distillery smells like old wood and liquor. Since no one stays here, I sneak in on my breaks from the tattoo shop to nap or drink. Usually both.
In the back closet, I dig through Kody’s favorite stash until my fingers wrap around the cool glass of a top-shelf vodka bottle.
The burn in my gut isn’t from thirst. It’s from everything else.
Everything I don’t talk about.
Alcohol dulls the throb in the back of my skull. It makes memories feel like someone else’s nightmares, distant enough I can pretend they aren’t mine.
The more I drink, the easier it is to convince myself I’m just a guy killing time in a quiet room, not a man trying to slay the ghosts of hands that took, voices that taunted, and pain that never leaves.
I uncork the bottle and steal a long swallow, letting the heat sear a path down my throat. A few more gulps, and the buzz starts to kick in.
Just as I sink into a dope mellow, the apartment door bangs open.
Fuck.
I come here to escape people, and that includes my nagging, overprotective family.
Ducking behind the closet door, I peer through the crack. My pulse thumps as I hold my breath, forcing my limbs to be still.
Monty and Kody stumble in with Frankie caught between them. Her red hair spills over Monty’s arm as he clasps her nape and pulls her into a kiss.
Kody watches, his black eyes unreadable, but there’s possession in the hands that encircle her waist as he hauls her against his grinding hips.
The air shifts, sizzling with raw, primal panting.
Fucking great.
I exhale slowly, pressing my back against the wooden panels, keeping my breath even.
Frankie moans softly, a whisper of sound amid the rustle of fabric, the scrape of belts unbuckling, and the wet sucking of mouths on skin.
Shut your eyes, pervert. Stop creeping on your dad and his—
Yep, that’s his boner.
Right next to Kody’s.
If they start sword-fighting, I’m out of here.
The room becomes an explosion of sensation. Low murmurs, the creak of the mattress, hushed gasps, and…
Now they’re fucking.
My fingers tighten around the bottle. I can’t ignore the cruel twist of envy and resentment knifing inside me. And something else. Not lust. Not exactly. It feels like yearning, the kind that digs deep and refuses to let go.
I spent twenty-four years with a pedophile and ten months with a homicidal surgeon.
Frankie killed Denver, and six months ago, I slaughtered the doctor. I cut him into bite-sized pieces and fed him to the wolves.
Now I’m free. Free to fuck and fall in love and be happy. But I don’t know how to do any of those things.
I don’t know how to move forward.
Shifting, I rest my temple against the doorframe and close my eyes.
My body knows pain. It knows touches that end in bruises, broken bones, and stitches.