Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Our eventual destination appears to be nothing more than a tiny shack wedged deep in a wooded area a few minutes from a gorgeous, private lake. Outrage hits almost immediately yet upon entry hidden buttons under a massive spiderweb are pressed exposing a staircase for us to take. The underground area includes a holding cell similar to the one back at the office as well as a supply nook filled with weapons, tools, and basic care items like blankets and towels.
Once she’s been placed down on the cushioned cot, A.D. aids his brother in freeing her binds before exiting the space. He crosses over to me to collect and secure the weapons in a closet at the same time Ptur does something so unexpected that I can’t look away from it.
Rather than simply leave her free from the constraints in a curled contortion, he gingerly unfurls her. Rolls her onto her back. Places a pillow under her head. Extends her thick legs. Removes the boots from her feet revealing six toes on each one, an attribute I was so grateful not to have. I anticipate a gagging reaction to the sight, yet he surprises me for a second time when he continues on unbothered. He gives a respectable readjustment to her leather crop top and repositions the bag around her waist that appears to be a…fanny pack?
Oaversack.
Against what is clearly my better judgment I decide to engage with the voice.
Is this one of those tomato, tomato situations?
No.
The urge to dig for further clarification is cut short by A.D. asking his older brother from our side of the glass, “Anything else?”
Ptur unfolds the blanket, tucks it against her side for additional cushioning, and replies during his exiting of the cell. “Will you let Gene know we will be dining down here instead?”
“We will?”
“Yes.” His gaze shifts to me as the cell door locks in place behind him, making it appear to be flush with the rest of the wall. “You want her in your sights then for the time being she will be. Perhaps such a gesture will aid in me building your trust, which is honestly the second most important thing to me at this moment.”
There’s no resisting the instinct to ponder the obvious out loud. “What’s the first?”
“Your safety.”
Thoughtless swooning occurs so loudly that I force myself to look down to avoid further embarrassment.
What in the fuck is wrong with me?
Attraction is fine.
Pining over the man who is not only my biggest adversary at work but literally my long-lost mother’s captor is fucking awful.
We’re talking the type of shit they make terrible made for TV movies over.
God, I can practically hear Kyla now telling me about this exact scenario while picking the croutons off my chicken Cesar salad.
A.D. lightly chortles his amusement. “And I thought The Goddess of Fate fucked me up.”
Ptur and I both shoot him disapproving glares.
“Huh.” He wiggles his finger back and forth at the two of us. “You’re already making the same faces. That can’t be good.”
“You know what is good?” His older brother verbally pushes for a segue. “Wine.” Our eyes meet again. “Should I have Gene bring us a bottle down as well? Red perhaps?”
“You know what’s better than wine?”
“Leprechaun’s Breath,” A.D. inserts without waiting for me to finish.
“Odin’s Eye trumps that,” Ptur instantly insists.
“That shit isn’t meant for drinking,” A.D. shudders in an overdramatic fashion. “It’s meant for stripping off the skin of armadillos.”
“Yeah, if you don’t have big enough balls to handle it.”
“Hey! My balls are-”
“Excuse me,” my interruption ends what I get the feeling is a comeback I don’t wanna hear. “What the fuck are Leprechaun’s Breath and Odin’s Eye?”
Ptur presents me with a smug smirk. “Not for a Sleeper.”
The term rearing its ugly head for the millionth time has me planting my hands back on my hips. “And what the fuck does that exactly mean?”
“She’s only a half-Sleeper, P,” A.D. cockily reminds. “Actually, half-Awaker since she should’ve never been in The Fog to begin with, which means she probably won’t die from a taste.”
“I’d rather not test that fucking theory,” Ptur bites, defensiveness rampant in his tone.
“And I’d rather not have choices made for me.” My equally aggressive chomped response redirects his attention to me. “How about you have Gene bring us a bottle of red—a cabernet if you have it—and a bottle of both of those bizarre beverages so that I can make a ruling for myself?”
Reluctance precedes Ptur’s surrendering which is done on the loosening of his tie. “Fine, but I’m not holding your hair back if you puke.” The challenging eyebrow lift he’s given has him quietly muttering, “Alright, I will, but I won’t be happy about it.”
Victorious giggles escape me while A.D. pompously chortles a second time. “This shit just keeps getting better and better.”
His older brother huffs in obvious irritation, “Don’t you have a pregnant mate to tend to? Feet to rub or socks to reorganize?”