Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 72308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
I made it into my apartment and felt the heat smother me instantly. I turned around to face Bartholomew, to say goodnight, to exchange pleasantries at the end of our…whatever it was.
But he was already gone. The back door shut, and the SUV took off.
15
CAULDRON
I pulled the car over to the curb and killed the engine.
The clock on the dash said 3:38 a.m.
It was dark and cold, with no people and no cars to be seen.
As always, I couldn’t sleep, which had become the norm these days. I didn’t want to waste hours lying in bed, so I did my workouts in the middle of the night. Once I showered afterward, it helped me get back to sleep.
But not tonight.
Parked across the street, I rolled down my window and looked at the two-story apartment. The windows on either side were pitch black, but her windows still had a glow between the curtains.
She couldn’t sleep either.
Or she had somebody over…
But I doubted the lights would be on if that were the case.
If she had someone over…I wasn’t sure what I would do.
Not that I had the right to care. Not that I had the right to feel anything but nothing at all.
I’d been in Paris for a few weeks. Cap-Ferrat was abandoned, and now Hugo could do his deep clean of the place. The Christmas tree would be taken down, and so would all the ornaments and lights. I always spent Christmas alone, but this was the first time I actually felt alone.
Felt like something was missing.
I rolled down the window and lit up my cigar, the winter cold stinging my eyes the second it hit me. With my elbow propped on the windowsill, I stared at her apartment with no intention of going inside.
I had no intention of doing anything.
Other than sitting there…and staring.
I rested my head against the wheel and imagined a life where I walked through the doors. Just let myself in like I was coming home. She’d be sitting on the couch in her pajamas, reading a book with her hair in a bun, and when she looked up at me, there would be confusion…but then longing. We wouldn’t say a word. We would just come together…as if nothing had happened.
I let my mind wander for a bit. Fantasize for a bit. Pretend that cigar was her lips. But then the dream shattered, and I was back in my car, the freezing air hitting me in the face.
Then the lights flicked off. Her apartment went dark.
And that was when I drove home. Alone.
16
CAMILLE
Every couple of days, Bartholomew would text me.
I need you.
He treated me like one of his men. Not one of his women.
After I got over the initial fear, it actually felt nice. I felt like I had more to offer than my naked body. I was intelligent and resourceful. I could make things happen if I put my mind to it. Bartholomew either had faith in me, or he just assumed it was so easy, a monkey could do it.
I need you.
I knew that meant he was right outside. Or his driver was right outside.
I got dressed, even though I didn’t know what I was getting dressed for, and got into the blacked-out SUV. The driver took me across town, pulling up to a three-story apartment building that looked unoccupied from the outside.
A man led me into an elevator, and then we stepped out into the parlor.
I knew I’d stepped into some serious shit when I heard Bartholomew’s voice.
“My world is built on skulls, and soon, my boot will be resting on yours.”
What in the actual fuck?
The man took me by the arm and guided me into the other room.
We rounded the corner into a sitting room, and Bartholomew stood there in his classic dark look with a black leather jacket. His men were spread out across the room, each of them looking unimpressed by the sight they witnessed.
A man was kneeling on the floor, hands zip-tied at his back.
Bartholomew stared him down as he slowly walked over, eyes on his prey.
The man on the floor trembled at his approach.
He stopped, gave a long hard stare, and then slammed his boot into the man’s side.
The man toppled over while giving a restrained scream.
Then Bartholomew rested his boot right on top of his head, like a man conquering an unknown land, and pushed down a bit, squeezing the man’s head against the floorboards.
Jesus Christ.
“Speak your truth, Bayard.” Bartholomew put down more weight, making the man squirm as he tried to relieve the pressure from his military boot. “Choose your words carefully because they’ll follow you wherever you end up.”
What did that mean?
“It wasn’t me,” he said in a strained voice. “How many times do I have to tell you, you got the wrong guy?”
Bartholomew went still, staring down at the man with that detached expression. “Got the wrong guy, huh?”