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)
“But you do sometimes?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
I shake my head, unable to read this guy. “What else do you know?”
“Hm?” He blinks, blinks again. “Oh. Right. I’m the tour guide. Here we go. Stairs. Light switch. Window. Another window. Floor.” He waves his cigarette at each thing in turn. “If you hear scratching or smell rot…” He taps the wall behind him. “It’s probably this one. Just ignore it.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“They never do.”
Refusing to acknowledge that comment, I nod at the rustic chandelier dangling beside the catwalk. “How is everything powered?”
“Hoss has its own power plant. I’m sure you saw the solar panels on the roof. But what you didn’t see is the steampunk chamber in the workshop. It houses a hydroelectric generator…hydraulic turbine thingy…or whatever it’s called. It converts water from the river into mechanical energy. Or something.”
“I see what you’re doing.” I tilt my head, holding his sharp gaze. “You know exactly what it’s called and how it works, but for some reason, you want me to think you’re an oblivious, scatterbrained fool.”
“You’re too kind.” His smile chills the air. “But dear ol’ dad holds all the brains in this family. He’s a virtuoso engineer and designed the whole system. Since he’s the only one who can work on it, you’ll need to direct all electrical questions to him.”
“What happens if he dies?”
“If he dies…” His face pinches. “We’d have bigger problems than turning on the lights, babe.”
“Like what?”
“He’s the only one who can fly the plane. Without him, how would I get ink and smokes?” He shakes the box of markers. “I wouldn’t last the winter.”
“Without sharpies?”
“Without food, genius.” He lifts a shoulder. “We would all be D-E-D.”
“You mean D-E-A-D.”
“That, too.”
Either he’s speaking in riddles, or I’m not asking the right questions.
“What’s the plan for me?” At his dead stare, I clarify. “Will you or anyone here hurt me?”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“What is life without pain? The question isn’t will you hurt? It’s where you’ll hurt.” He boops my nose with a press of his finger and spins toward the door beside him. “This is your room.”
His ominous warning gnaws a hole in my stomach. I try to make sense of it, but all I’m left with is more questions. And more fear.
I peer into the bedroom.
The A-frame ceiling rises shockingly high, the steeply angled sides of the roofline beginning at the floor and meeting in a sharp point at the top. The vertical wall opposite the door is all glass, forming a huge triangle-shaped window overlooking the vast tundra.
Tucked against either side of that window, beneath the lower slopes of the roofline, sits the beds.
Two full-size beds. One cleanly made with white linens. The other tangled with sheets, freshly used. A bearskin rug covers the floor between them.
Clothes drape over a nearby armchair. Books clutter the nightstand. Boots wait beside the door.
This isn’t a guest room.
“Whose room is this?” I clench my hands.
“Yours and…” He makes a pouty face. “Oh no. You wanted your own room. Don’t we all, sista. I share with Leonid, and he snores when he’s angry. Which is nightly. And he masturbates above the sheets. Also nightly. Our room is there if you want to trade.” With a flourish of flowing silk, he points at the far end of the catwalk and shifts back to me. “No tradesies? Fine. You can share with Kody.”
“The Lycan,” I whisper, horrified by the idea of being in the same room with him, let alone sleeping beside him.
“Lycan?” Lines crease his forehead. Then his blue eyes flare with amusement. “Aw! That’s adorable.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “Are you afraid of wolves, darling?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t go into the hills.”
I’ve seen enough. Heard enough. If the others are half as crazy as Wolfson, I won’t last the night with my mind intact.
It’s now or never.
“No, no, no, no.” I back away from the door. “I can’t sleep here. Not with him.”
Pressing a hand to my breastbone, I fake the rising symptoms of a panic attack. Full-body tremors. Disorientation. Breathlessness. I’m not an actress by any stretch, but in my line of work, I’ve seen enough of these episodes to make my performance look realistic.
“Can’t breathe.” I gasp, bending at the waist and clutching my throat. “Need air.”
“Should I press my lips to yours and administer mouth-to-mouth? I’m happy to help.”
I snap out my arm, palm to his chest, warding him off as I stumble toward the stairs.
“Or you can seek air outside.” With a sigh, he trails after me.
Staggering down the staircase and through the arctic entryway, I make a show of hyperventilating, all the while wondering how much of my performance is real.
Because I’m freaking the fuck out.
On the porch, I press my back against the house and try to calm my breaths. Beside me, Wolfson lights another cigarette and stares off at the sweeping hills.