Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s stupid. But I’m choosing him anyway.
CHAPTER 23
KIARA
Fuck Raiden Kane to the deepest pits of hell.
Maybe I’m delusional because a part of me had believed he might have actually come back to his apartment to get his things, but there’s been nothing but crickets. I even snuck over there to make sure he hadn’t silently moved out while I slept, but no, everything is still there like a four-day-old time capsule, everything just as he left it.
So where the fuck is the bastard?
I swear, I’m starting to give up on my resolve to keep him just for making me sweat it out like this. Besides, he’s a man. Is he even capable of surviving out in the wilderness all by himself? Where’s he sleeping? Who’s he talking to? Is he working or just sulking like I have been?
I scoff at the thought. Raiden Kane doesn’t sulk. He simply fucks his feelings out of his body. Only if that’s the case, I have to go and chop his dick off purely on principle. Now, I know this is all very new to me, but surely there’s some kind of mourning period, right? Some unspoken rule that he can’t go swinging that thing around like a baby elephant for at least six to ten working days.
He wouldn’t though . . . right? Surely not after the way he held me in that hospital bed and vowed that I was his whole world. From the moment we first got together in Barcelona, he hasn’t been with anybody else, and while I know we never had the exclusivity talk, it was there nonetheless. Only now, I have no idea where we stand.
I’ve known him for exactly fifty-two days, but who’s counting? And over these past fifty-two days, I’ve experienced every kind of human emotion our complex bodies are capable of. Overall rating: two out of ten. I don’t like it.
I’ve felt lost and confused, even when I was overwhelmingly happy. Is that what love is supposed to feel like, or is this something different? I just need someone to clue me in because this shit is ridiculous.
Fuck, I need that asshole from The Avengers to come click his fingers and wipe me out for good because that seems a shitload easier than having to deal with the realization that I might have just lost the one person that’s ever been capable of making me feel something real.
My phone chimes with the familiar sound of an incoming contract, and I let out a sigh as I reach for my phone, feeling around on the couch cushion, until the cool metal brushes over my fingers. Exactly six contracts have come through over the past few days, and I haven’t bothered with a single one of them. They have all ranged from different skill levels, but when Raiden isn’t there to compete against, what’s the point? The joy in the job has been sucked dry, and I don’t find myself as interested anymore.
Picking up my phone, I swipe my thumb across the screen to bring up the contract, and as it appears in front of me, I suck in a gasp and sit up, my eyes wide.
You know what? Take everything I just said, drench it in gasoline, set it on fire, and yeet it into the group chat archives where bad takes go to die. Clearly I was possessed when I dared to make a ridiculous claim like no longer being interested in these contracts.
The crumbs from my Flamin’ Hot Cheetos fall from my chest and drop straight down between my tits as I wipe my crumby fingers across the front of my white cami.
Okay, okay. I get it. I look like a slob. My hair hasn’t been brushed since before I left for Austin. It’s been in a messy bun, falling off the top of my head, and no, before anyone asks, I haven’t showered either. It’s not been my finest few days, but what’s a girl to do when she’s busy obsessing over a ghost’s location?
I abandon the Cheetos, letting the bag fall to the ground among the other dishes and food scraps I haven’t bothered cleaning up, and focus solely on the contract before me, my knees braced on my stained sweatpants.
Thirty-five-million-dollar payout.
What the actual fuck?
Contracts like this don’t come along often. They’re reserved for high-profile targets, the kind of targets who are impossible to take out, the kind of targets who would only ever be pursued by a select few assassins at the very top of their game.
Contracts like this get people like me killed before they’ve even breathed in the scent of their morning coffee. This shit is no joke. It’s as serious as it gets, and if successful, would launch someone into superstardom within our industry. They would never be questioned again, never accused of just getting lucky.