Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
“How?”
He cocked his head. “Strange question.”
“I mean how did you rip out a man’s heart?”
He rolled his shoulders, working out a kink in his neck as if this conversation was locker room talk and something to be humble about rather than hidden far, far from society and never mentioned. He said he had cops on his payroll. Online media called him France’s golden boy. How had he kept his feral side a secret for all these years?
He truly was a monster living in plain sight.
“Tess was given to me as a bribe.” His voice thickened. “Normally, I would’ve sent her straight home. But…” He shrugged. “This time, I couldn’t. I turned into something I’d promised myself I never would, and then I went and did the worst thing I could ever fucking do.”
I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position for my throbbing ankle. “Falling in love with her.”
His nostrils flared as if he wasn’t quite prepared for me to read him so well. But it wasn’t a matter of reading him—it was a matter of knowing myself and the fact that falling for Pim was both the best and worst thing I’d ever done.
Q stared into his empty glass, pensive. “I fell for her, and my natural instincts were blinded. She had a tracker in her neck. They knew what I was by then…so they took her from me.” His fingers tightened on the glass, his knuckles turning white. “I couldn’t stop what happened to her, but I could stop the men who did it.”
He pinned me with a glare. “When I found him, I slit open his chest, cracked his ribs with my bare hands, and I ripped out that motherfucker’s heart while he breathed.”
A chill worked over my skin. A chill of disgust but also of utmost awe. He loved to the depths that I did. A love that wasn’t encouraged because it made men do terrible things and somehow honour became wrapped up in sin.
I opened my mouth to tell him I understood or empathised—something to show him he needn’t hide with me—but a shrill tune cut through the air, silencing the room and everyone in it.
Franco hissed under his breath. “The sensors never went off.”
Everyone scrambled to the staircase, avoiding travelling up them until Mercer and myself charged to the base and listened once again to a doorbell melody as the Chinmoku boldly announced their arrival.
* * * * *
This was Mercer’s house; therefore, it was his door to open.
But as we strode across the foyer, shoulder to shoulder, guns holstered in our waistbands and our army trailing behind us, he fell back, giving me permission to be the one to begin this.
I still hated the bastard, but I couldn’t deny I had newfound respect for him.
I picked up my speed as best I could, unlocked the multiple high-tech locks, and opened the impressive front door.
And there was Daishin.
The man who’d lent my father money to buy my dust-broken cello.
The man who’d whispered to me late at night that I had so many gifts if only I had somewhere I could use them.
The man who’d hugged me and told me I was like a son to him, only to smear my lounge’s walls with the blood of my father and brother when I’d disappointed him.
Our eyes locked.
Black to black.
To the Western world, it was obvious I had exotic blood mixed in my veins. My jet black hair, lean build, almond eyes, and tanned skin hinted that I wasn’t quite like them. But to the Eastern world, it was evidently clear I was an imposter.
Daishin was quintessential Japanese with salt and pepper hair, pockmarked cheeks from terrible childhood acne, and eyes that would put any cat to shame. Despite his age and imperfections, he was willowy with Asian grace, long fingers encased in bright red gloves, lips well-formed but not full, a nose visible but not overpowering, and an effortless way of moving that made everyone around him seem clumsy and untrained.
He smiled, tight lipped and cold. His voice so familiar, slipping into a language I hadn’t used in a very long time. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite pupil, Miki-san.”
I mimicked his welcoming grin, replying in Japanese. “I haven’t been Miki in a very long time, Daishin-san. And I’ve long since stopped being your pupil.”
He clasped his hands in front of his crisp black suit. The stitching looked tight and unforgiving, the buttons and tailoring as impeccable as any Western designer, but I knew from experience the material he chose was stretchy, giving his clothing incomparable agility when it came to war.
“If you had remained my pupil, you wouldn’t be about to die, Miki-san.”
“And if you hadn’t kept hunting me, you wouldn’t be about to see your entire faction stolen from you, Daishin-san.”
We laughed together, merciless and chilling. Once again, my stupid brain fixated on the differences a smile could be. Smiling at Pim, I was full of sincerity and softness. Smiling at Mercer, I was full of mistrust and malevolence.