Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
As we get in the car, I look over my humble home, which offers me everything I need. Hawke’s place is flashier and more materialistically impressive, but even with the fortune we’re worth, I prefer a smaller space that’s more functional. And it’s not like I need a lot of things.
A small part of me hopes that Billie sticks around until I get back so I can fuck her senseless—and finish her tattoo. But I’ll never ask her to stay. It’s not my right. I’ll let her use me until she’s done with me, and I’ll deal with the repercussions after.
But I’m certain she was insinuating she’d be around more because it meant more fucking. Which I have no problem with, but I cut off that conversation, and I don’t like to make assumptions. I’m not good for someone like Billie Taylor. Even I fucking know that, so I’ll do everything I can to sabotage her forming any attachment to me. But I’m failing miserably as I let her abuse my body time and time again and lose myself completely in her.
“Did you get all clean-shaven for Mom or something?” Hawke asks as he ruffles my hair with a cheesy grin. I shove him back into his seat.
“Fuck off. One of us has to look presentable,” I say, but I think the black jeans and black shirt I have on aren’t up to the standards of our mother, who loves all things shiny, expensive, and beautiful. But it’s certainly better than the sweaty shirt Hawke’s wearing.
“Please, I’m the favorite.” He huffs without a doubt in his mind.
I don’t reply to his statement. We both give her hell in our own ways. But we both know she cares about us exactly the same and punishes us the same.
Anya Ivanov is a woman who hated kids and never wanted them but ended up with two fucking delinquents. We stole from her when we were fifteen. We were nothing but street rats. Our mother had died three years before that because she loved getting high more than she loved her own kids.
But we got by from stealing from the rich. Until we tried breaking into Anya’s house. She caught us and held a gun to both of our heads. It was more terrifying than the two dogs we’d sedated only a few minutes before. She scared the shit out of us, that is, until River walked in and asked her to put her guns down.
She looked at us with one perfectly raised brow and said, “Why? If they want to be big boys and steal from me, I’ll show them how I handle big boys.” She then flicked the safety off the guns.
River looked at us, indulging his wife.
“How old are you two?” he asked us.
We told him we were fifteen.
And that’s when our lives changed.
And to be honest, with how well we know her now, we’re lucky to be alive.
Our mother is a ruthless, cold-hearted bitch.
She is the fucking best.
And River is the only fatherly figure we’ve ever known. To be honest, he’s probably also more of a motherly figure than Anya. He showed us what it was to be part of a family.
To kill for family.
Anya and River balance each other out. Even if they’re both fucked up.
But River seems to have all the patience in the world for Anya’s antics, even if it costs him a car or two when she destroys them. In fact, she smashed up one of his cars not even two years ago because she forgot their anniversary, and he didn’t remind her. They’re definitely not the ideal couple to base a healthy relationship on, but they’re fucking powerful.
When Anya and River first took us in, even though we fought it, we liked the things they provided us with, like a nice school and fancy shoes. The shoes were a big thing for us, considering the shoes we had before we stole from a homeless person.
During the drive to our parents’ house, Hawke talks about various topics, not ever really expecting a response. It’s how we work. He can’t keep his mouth shut, and I’d rather not have to contribute at all.
As I pull up to the house, I spot River waiting on the front patio. We’re thirty-six minutes late, and I contemplate breaking one of Hawke’s legs so we have a reasonable excuse as to why. Even then, I don’t think it’ll be enough to soothe our mother’s wrath.
Anya hated it at first when we called her “Mother.” We did it just to annoy her. But to be honest, no matter how cold and ruthless she is, she’s been more of a mother to us than the one who gave us life. And now she won’t tolerate it if we call her anything else.
When we step out of the car, our father glares at us disapprovingly. “You’re late. Your mother is pissed.” He raises a glass of whiskey to his lips, smirking.