Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 127941 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127941 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
“I have money hidden in the safe. You can have that.”
Brynn steps up to her husband, tears fresh in her eyes. “I will make it on my own without your dirty money. I don’t want it.” She holds up her hand and rips her wedding rings right off her fingers before throwing them at him, though if it was me, I would have kept them to pawn for cash. “Screw you and screw this marriage.”
Brynn turns and steps toward the door with her head held high, and as I watch her move, I see nothing but pure embarrassment, pain, and devastation in her eyes. She was completely blindsided by this. She had absolutely no idea and now she’s left with nothing.
I didn’t realize that each family’s wealth is dependent upon Dynasty and the urge to look out for her pulses through me, but I can’t think about that yet. I have a job to do.
I stand beside the open door, leaning against the wall and watching as Michael hangs by his cuffs above his head. He looks broken. His wife’s words have cut him deeper than I ever could and that’s all the satisfaction I need.
Brynn approaches the door, and in the final seconds before walking out of Michael’s cell, her gaze flicks to mine. “Make it hurt,” she begs, and then with one final step, she’s out the door and released from the hold of her husband. Though something tells me that he’s not the only one who will never see her again. As far as I can tell, Brynn Harding is taking her children and fucking right off out of here, away from her husband’s stain and embarrassment.
I wait a moment, just staring at the man who has had a hand in numerous attacks against me over the few short months since my eighteenth birthday. The gun weighs heavily in my hand, but even heavier on my mind knowing what it is that I have to do.
At one stage, I thought ending a man’s life was getting easier, but I was wrong. How could this ever be easy? No matter how many times I have to pull a trigger, and how great the relief is afterward, it will never be something that I can do without feeling it deep in my chest.
I’m a murderer. I’m something I never thought I would be. Dynasty has taken my innocence and corrupted it until it’s something that I don’t even recognize anymore, but this is me, and this is who I am, who I will forever be.
A hand falls to my shoulder and squeezes and I suck in a surprised gasp. “Let me,” Carver says, his other hand twining around mine as he attempts to take the gun from me.
I look up and meet his heavy stare, knowing that he’d do anything to take the burden off my shoulders, but I have to do this. The burden is mine.
I tighten my grip on the gun and shake my head. “No. I will do it.”
“Are you sure?”
I take a shaky breath and position myself in front of Michael who instantly bucks against his binds, pulling and pushing, desperately trying to get free and save himself. I raise my hand, the gun pointing right between his eyes.
My hand is steady despite the fear that rattles deep inside me.
As if sensing my unease, Carver steps in behind me, and just as he did with Sam Delacourt, he positions my aim, making sure I won’t miss.
With his chest pressed against my back and his other hand on my hip, I let out another breath. Then with fire burning in my stomach and determination pulsing through my veins, I pull the trigger and send a bullet square between Harding’s eyes, evening the score.
Come and get me, Paris. I’m ready.
CHAPTER 25
Grayson’s fingers trail up and down my back soothing every nerve within my body as I stare up at my bedroom ceiling. Apparently having both Cruz and Grayson lying in my bed is enough to mask the taint that Sara left in my room, because damn, lying here between them both with their hands grazing along my body has me forgetting that she even exists.
Well … with the pills the psych ward is giving her, I bet she doesn’t even remember that she exists.
“Do you think they’re alright?” I ask the boys, referring to King and Carver, who elected to stay behind in the cells and clean up the mess created by my bullet shooting through the center of Michael Harding’s brain.
“They’re fine,” Cruz says, tightening his grip on my hip. “It’s not the first time they’ve had to clean brains off the back wall of a holding cell, and it won’t be the last.”
“Do I even want to know?”
Grayson laughs. “Most chicks would say no, but you’d probably get turned on.”