Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“Yeah. He said he and Mom should’ve only had you. Mom scolded him, but she gave me a weird look when I showed them the dead mice.”
“Then maybe don’t do that.”
“But I wanted to see inside them.”
“You shouldn’t let Mom or Dad see inside you.” I notch another arrow and fire. Bullseye.
“Why can’t they just be proud of me?”
“Because you were born different, and they can’t handle that kind of different.”
“How different?”
I pull another arrow and aim it at his throat, and he doesn’t even flinch. "How do you feel when I do this?"
“I want to hurt you for wanting to hurt me.”
"That’s different. Most people would feel scared, frozen, or nervous—that’s how their brain works.” I raise the arrow and fire again. Bullseye. “If you want Mom to stop looking at you like that, watch how your friends act and mimic them as best you can. It’ll get easier with time.”
He jumps up, a grin breaking through his usual blank expression. “Will Dad stop hating me, too?”
“Maybe stay away from Dad. I don’t think he’s ever going to accept you.”
So I might have unknowingly contributed to the rift between Dad and Kill. I think Kill wanted to try when we were young, but it faded out.
Dad tried more than Kill, though. He came up with all sorts of activities for all three of us, including hunting, but I believe Kill didn’t really like seeing Dad and me getting along, so he stopped coming.
They grew further and further apart the older Kill got, and it turned into a cold war of sorts.
One I wasn’t changing, because I don’t like the idea of Kill getting close to Dad. I barely tolerate his attachment to Mom, but with Dad or even Grandpa, that’s a red line. He has the rest of the world to charm.
I assure Dad that Killian’s doing well, and he insists that we should come visit.
In the end, I’ll drop by alone since Kill wouldn’t want to go anyway.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and focus on something one of the guys is talking about, jumping in with the most basic replies.
We step into a local coffee shop, the familiar hum of conversation and the sharp scent of espresso filling the air. It’s one of those quiet places, tucked away from the town center’s chaos, with mismatched furniture and a cozy, lived-in feel.
The soft clink of spoons and the low murmur of the barista at the counter blend into the background as my eyes lock onto none other than my professor.
Kayden’s sitting at a small corner table, effortlessly commanding attention. His dark hair is styled just enough to look casual but still sharp, framing his defined cheekbones, defined jawline, and his slight stubble adds to the maturity of his look.
His pressed white shirt strains against his muscles, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, and is paired with well-tailored black pants. His gaze is intense and piercing, with natural magnetism as he directs it at a woman.
Because, yes, there’s a fucking woman sitting across from him.
And he’s talking to her.
She’s older, maybe in her mid-thirties, with long auburn hair that cascades over her shoulders and her tight black dress. She has a sultry look and a flirtatious smile that’s all too confident for my fucking taste. Her eyes linger on him, warm and inviting, as she leans in to say something, her laugh low and rich.
“Oh my God, is that Prof Lockwood?” one of the girls squeals as we sit at the biggest table in the middle of the room.
I choose a seat that’s right across from him.
But he doesn’t notice me.
Not when his entire attention is on the woman with red lipstick.
“Is he on a date?” Myers asks with glee.
“Get it, Prof. She’s hot as fuck,” another one of the dumb-ass guys says.
“I think she’s a prof at the business school.”
“I’m gonna cry.” Morgan pouts beside me. “If I can’t have him, no woman should.”
“They could be doing one of those things professors do,” Zara says, stroking her arm.
“Yeah, right. She looks ready to unzip his pants and give us a show. Why is life so unfair?”
“He’s never shown interest in you or anyone in class, actually. I think he prefers people his age. Don’t take it personally, Morgan.”
“It still sucks.”
They chatter and buzz and talk and talk and talk, and I’m on the verge of banging each of their heads on the table and cracking their skulls open.
But I don’t do that.
I’m the good boy Gareth. I don’t fantasize about murder in public.
Okay, I do, but not to the point where it’s hard to control the urge.
And the main reason is because Kayden still hasn’t noticed me.
Me.
There’s been a sudden irrational burn in my chest since I walked in, and I can’t look away. I watch as the motherfucker—who was so sick his moms nursed him back to health like a goddamn baby—leans forward, his expression calm, collected. It’s like he’s not even noticing how the woman is practically hanging on to his every word.