Total pages in book: 205
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Well, that answers that.
I drag my feet toward the kitchen and pause on the threshold beside a cast iron coal stove.
An alternative heating source. Interesting. And smart. It can heat this entire cabin using coal pellets, making the wood-burning kitchen fireplace feel like overkill.
Another sitting area resides beyond the hearth, this one cozier than the main living space, the air smoky warm from the crackling fire and crowded with testosterone.
They’re here.
All three of them.
My neck tightens, and my skin prickles as the urge to run bears down with too much pressure. Here I am, surrounded on all sides by predators twice my size, all eyes intently on me, and it’s all I can do to remain upright.
Not brave at all.
“Boys, this is Frankie.” Denver tugs on a lock of my hair. “Our new roommate.”
“Don’t touch me.” I jerk away from him.
On the rug before the fireplace, Wolfson sprawls on his back, legs lifted to rest on the couch and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Eyes closed, expression serene, he inhales as if he’s waited his whole life for that smoke.
“That’s Leonid.” Denver nods in the opposite direction, drawing my attention toward the angry-looking man beside the industrial oven.
The oldest son.
Leonid runs masculine fingers over his short beard as his eyes openly explore me from head to toe, trailing shivers down my spine. I don’t know if he notices the bulkiness beneath my coat, but I give him the same treatment, matching his aggressive stare.
Taller than his father, he stands six feet and too many inches. He’s broader, too. Packed with muscle. The kind of brawn that’s forged and sculpted with work. Real work that counts at the end of the day.
His hair falls between medium brown and Denver’s dark blond. Hard to tell how long it is with it pulled back in twisty braids and complicated knots like a goddamn Viking.
And those eyes…My God, are they changing colors? I don’t look long enough to find out. I can’t. That strange varicolored glare is so daunting, so painfully blinding, I can’t hold it.
Why is he so good-looking?
Why are they all so intensely, impossibly gorgeous? It’s not natural.
Wolfson is perfect in the way an artist chisels a masterpiece—with precision and honed skill. Leonid is perfect in the way Mother Nature chisels a masterpiece—with violence and chaos.
Then there’s the middle son.
Kodiak.
He leans against the far wall, arms folded across his massive chest, cords in his neck stretched taut, and brown-black eyes cutting through my senses, strangling my breath.
His hair is blacker than black and shorter than the others, the waves subtle and thick, curling behind his ears. The downturn of his mouth doesn’t seem deliberate, but it gives him a beautifully broody, resting sad face.
Sadness isn’t the emotion radiating from him, however.
He wears a detached facade that goes far below the surface. Standing apart from everyone, he isn’t just physically distant. He’s aloof. Unmoved. Unapproachable. Terrifying.
He’s the scary one.
The dark one.
Tanned complexion, black hair, even blacker eyes—he conjures images of a dark Lycan prince in the underworld. Mysterious. Cold-blooded. Deadly.
“Don’t worry about Kodiak.” Denver wets his lips. “It’ll take him some time to warm up.”
A choking laugh erupts from Wolfson. Lying on the floor, he pounds his chest and wheezes through a smoky, manic cackle that crawls under my skin.
The air feels thick and stagnant with unspoken things. There’s too much smirking, too much laughter, too many secrets hiding behind smoke and mirrors.
This is all an act. A game they devised to entertain themselves. And I’m the new toy.
They’re going to rape me.
Stop it.
Read the goddamn room.
Together, these four men embody enough carnal beauty to set the world on fire. But there isn’t an iota of sexual intent leaking from them. Maybe it’s there, lurking beneath those acidic expressions.
Except Wolfson. He just looks bored. And Denver’s back to wearing a lazy grin. But the other two? They don’t want me here. If I had to guess, they hate the sight of me.
Why is that? Am I not what they expected? Or did they not expect anyone at all?
“Frankie was just describing her assumed role here.” Denver strolls through the kitchen, fingertips in his front pockets, looking deceptively harmless and jovial as he glances my way. “How did you describe it? Cooking, cleaning, serving us beer—”
“Need something stronger than beer, babe.” Wolfson exhales a curl of smoke.
“—and spreading her legs.” Denver tips his head.
My shoulders hunch. Wolfson pops up on his elbows. The other two don’t bat an eyelash.
“We don’t have gendered jobs in Hoss.” As if to emphasize the point, Denver removes a tray of baked fish from the oven. “Everyone pulls their weight equally. Right, boys?”
With a groan, Wolfson flops back on the rug and returns to his smoke. The other two still haven’t moved. Are they even breathing?
The tension in the room suffocates, like at any second, something or someone is going to snap.