Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
But why do I feel like my grandparents could have a hand in this?
Dad said it fifteen years ago, ‘You were there when they said they’d only attend my funeral. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a hand in quickening the process.’
Grandma was obviously against any relationship I had with Naomi, just like she was opposed to my parents’ marriage.
Nate always warned me to be careful so that I wouldn’t share my father’s fate.
Not only that, but he made it his mission to act as some sort of invisible shield between me and the world—my grandparents included. As if he knew exactly what they were capable of.
But they wouldn’t have had me shot, right? After all, I’m the future leader of the Weaver clan, as they like to remind me.
Though anything is possible if the goal is to teach me a lesson.
I attempt to sit up again, but Naomi places a soft yet firm hand on my chest to forbid me.
“I’m fine,” I strain.
I’m not. The mere act of moving is like lifting weights with my fucking teeth. My head is dizzy and the wound pulses like a motherfucker.
But I can’t tell Naomi that or she’ll be more scared and hurt than she already is.
The cold concrete floor scrapes against my thigh and palm as I slowly sit up and lean against the wall. Despite her protests.
“You’re hurt…” she whines, but gives up trying to stop me and helps me into a comfortable position.
Fresh tears stream down her cheeks as she carefully maneuvers herself so that she’s on my injured side. She’s still clutching her T-shirt with determination, as if letting go will cause the life to evaporate out of me.
Or allow me to bleed out.
I don’t like seeing her cry. Well, I do, but only when I chase and conquer her, because I know she enjoys it, too.
I love her fuck-me tears.
Her ‘no, please’ that are actually ‘yes, please’ tears.
But not these.
The pain and desperation in them fucking gut me.
I dislike it when she’s sad or hurt. It’s even more painful than if they were my own feelings. I can brush those off, treat them efficiently and push them to the background.
I wish I could do the same with Naomi’s. I wish I could take away her feelings and treat them as my own so that she’s no longer hurting.
Is that…what empathy feels like?
“Hey…” I palm her cheek, thumbing away the moisture gathered there. “I’m really fine.”
“You don’t seem fine,” she murmurs.
“It looks worse than it actually is. Do you want to make it better?”
“Of course.”
“Then stop crying, baby. That hurts more than the wound itself.”
She sniffles, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.
Static fills the room again and both of us stiffen as the same voice from earlier speaks again, “Very touching. You nearly put me to sleep.”
“What do you want from us?” Naomi’s gaze searches the room and when I do the same, I spot a few blinking cameras in the corners and a white speaker from which his voice reaches us.
“I already told you. A game.”
“Are you one of my father’s men?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“Mom said you were.”
“Sato-san says a lot of things. It’s better not to believe them all. Now, for our game…”
“We’re not playing,” I grunt out, then wince.
Sick people like him get off on driving others to a point of no return. They like stripping people down to their most primitive forms where they can freely exploit them. There’s no way in fuck we’ll give him the joy of seeing us spiral out of control.
“Who said you have a choice, Quarterback? Either play or there will be no water and food. Oh, and your wound will get infected and you’ll die.”
My lips twist and I curse under my breath. I should’ve known they’d use our basic needs against us.
There must be a way we can thwart his plans…
“If we agree, will you get him help?” Naomi asks.
I shake my head. She’s playing right into his hands by revealing that she cares about my well-being. I would’ve grabbed and kissed the fuck out of her under different circumstances, but right now, we don’t know what we’re actually dealing with.
This could be a rogue group that’s rebelling against her father. Or maybe her father himself is a sick bastard who doesn’t care about putting his own daughter into dire situations.
Until we figure out their angle, we need to be extra careful about our survival, and that means revealing as little as possible about ourselves.
“No promises,” the man, Ren, as Naomi called him, says. “Now, the game. We’ll start with the rules. No lies. I mean it. We’ll know when you lie and if you do, there will be punishment.”
“What type of game is this?” I ask.
“I’m glad you asked, Quarterback. We call this survival of the fittest. Just like your tattoo.”