Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I’m on a plane right now, actually, catching a late flight to Winnipeg in Canada, where I’ll rent a car and drive the few hours out into the remote wilderness town where the one person who might understand what I’m feeling lives.
Alden.
Alden left the same way. Well, maybe not the same way, but he decided that his love for Azalea and their desire to live their own lives and probably bring children into that life was what he wanted to do even more than he wanted to be doing what we’d always been doing. It didn’t mean that he’d rejected the family. Granny understood. It was her suggestion that he take a step back and become a regular person again.
For the record, Alden was never a regular person. I guess, for lack of a better word, I mean a civilian—someone who doesn’t hack people and fight crime for a living. He now has a non-dangerous job, and so does Azalea, and as far as I know, they’re happy.
A few hours later, I’m greeted by the business end of a shotgun as I try and walk up Alden’s porch. Right, so I guess calling ahead and warning them that I’m coming would have been a good thing. Luckily for me, Alden has good night vision. It’s pitch black out, but I guess he can’t mistake my big bulk for anything other than one of his brothers. He lowers the gun, ducks back inside the open door, and soon, the porch light flicks on.
“Ransom?” He blinks at me, and damn if the bastard doesn’t look good. He’s tanned and healthy, his black eyes sparkling and his dark wavy hair even darker and wavier than I remember. It’s grown out quite a bit.
“In the flesh.” I put out a hand in greeting, but Alden lunges forward, grabbing me in a bear hug, which is kind of awkward because he’s still holding the shotgun.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” He claps me on the back. Hard. Hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
“I…it was kind of spur of the moment. Do you have a second? To talk?”
Alden’s bronze brow wrinkles up as he frowns. “This being the kind of conversation that can’t be had over the phone?”
I lift my phone out of my pocket and swipe my finger across the screen, but then I realize it’s dead, so I tuck it back in. Better off that way. I’m ultra-careful, but I still don’t trust technology. I know what can be done with it, and I know what I can do with it. It’s actually kind of scary. I don’t want it used against me.
“How long are you staying?” Alden asks as he starts back to the house.
It’s a small place, more of a cabin, really, but cute and quaint. I would never have pictured him enjoying lake life, but he works at a fishing vacation resort nearby. Azalea works from home as a writer, or at least that’s what she was doing. I haven’t visited or even checked in with them in a while. I’d feel guilty about that, except I know it’s what we do to keep everyone safe, and when we were all working a mission, Alden wouldn’t have expected it.
“Just overnight.”
He’s probably the one person on earth who wouldn’t raise a brow at that. No, correction. Granny and my brothers would understand too. Understand that someone had flown all the way across the country and then some, driven three hours and were only staying until morning. In our world, it makes perfect sense.
“I guess we had better get to talking then.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
The house….cabin…whatever…is decorated all nicely with happy cross stitches as opposed to evil cross stitches—don’t ask me what those look like. I suppose those are the ones that eat a bag of dicks, which is supposed to be shocking because cross stitches aren’t since they’re often seen as a granny sort of craft—colorful tea towels and countertop appliances, and there is wood everywhere. There’s tongue and groove pine on the wall, a wooden table and some chairs, and an antique china cabinet that holds a bunch of adorable mismatched porcelain dishes.
“Azalea’s sleeping?” I sit down roughly in one of the chairs. It’s old and sturdy, but it still whines at having to bear my big bulk. I totally feel for the chair. I get it. I’m not a small human.
“Do you know what time it is?” Alden asks that by just asking it. Not in a smart or snarky or sarcastic or witty way. He just asks. Because there’s a good chance I don’t know the time.
And he’s right. I don’t. So I shrug. My phone is dead, and I’m not about to go dig out any tech from the duffel bag I brought in with me, which I had placed by the table before I sat down.