Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Vicky,” Graham tries, “come on now. Lux’s crying, you disturbed bastard.”
We stop at another door. Alba clasps my hand in hers, drawing my attention to her and away from the recklessness eddying around us.
“You’re a fucking wanka cunt, Vicky!” Graham punches out at Victor from behind.
The intimidating Victor ignores the assault and lifts a leg. He kicks in another door. I remove myself from Alba’s consoling embrace, heart collapsing into the pit of my stomach. I absently amble into a cheerful yellow room with a mural of colorful trains. There’s a wooden toddler bed fashioned from a darling, little choo choo train. Books rest on shelves, and crayons lay on a miniature table. A piece of construction paper has an incomplete drawing.
Victor will not enter this room. Not one single step. My eyes go to a framed photo of a boy as Vic makes his retreat. Woozy, I pull in oxygen while picking up the photo.
The boy has a shock of dark blond hair and big blue eyes that prompt a smile to even the most miserable person. There’s a blue and yellow ball in his hands. He holds it up to whoever is taking the photo—a dreamy, beautiful child.
Graham steps inside, leaning against the wall, saying, “Little Jude was barely two.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Em was an awful driver. My sis,” his voice breaks, “My sister-in-law was just a lousy driver.”
I leave him there as he consoles himself with a teddy bear.
Alba takes a few steps from the bedroom door. “Lux, come here, love.”
“I c-can’t hear that word, Alba. Every tender word, every affectionate caress. All hinged on a lie. Victor—he can’t love me—not because he’s incapable. He won’t!”
“No, honey.”
Shoulders sharpened, I retort, “He refuses to fucking love! I’m . . . I’m going home. Right now, this very instant.”
“Home!” Victor’s words boom from our bedroom, and he comes out. He pulls at the tie from his neck, popping a few buttons on his shirt. Possessive fury eclipses him.
Dark, possessive fury.
“I’ve already told you that wherever I am, you are home,” he shouts.
“Oh mate, oh mate,” Graham sighs. “Have a fucking heart, Vicky. You haven’t seen your son’s photo in years. Never mention Em.”
Victor says some type of British term that soars over my head as I silently cry. I look away from the arguing brothers, away from a man that I don't really even know.
Burt starts up the stairs with a look of bewilderment. “Take me to the airport, please. I want to go right this very instant.”
Victor gets in my face. Burt moves around him. He takes Victor’s shoulders and looks him in the eye. Burt’s words fail at penetrating the menacing beast. He tells Victor to come back. Burt continues to tell Victor that he needs to come back as if he’s possessed.
Victor Tudor is a stranger, though he has the same muscular body I crave. I never realized until this very second that he’s a lethal weapon, a vessel for destruction.
Victor pushes the older man out of his way. He and Graham scuffle. It’s no use. One punch and a red river leaks from Graham’s nose. The next punch leaves Graham doubled over, his legs failing him.
“Luxury.” Victor steps in front of me. His tone’s calm as always but with a killer bite. “You have two options. Sleep or we can fuck before bed,” he whispers in my ear and walks back into the bedroom.
Although I’m reeling, I hear Alba through the haze of white-hot fury. “Let’s go downstairs. Grab a drink or two.”
“No,” I undertone. Distance stretches between Victor and me like a chasm. All that time we spent away during the holidays can’t compare to this. Furrowing my brow in determination, I follow after the biggest fucking bully I’ve ever had in my entire life.
44
Victor
Jude was twenty-six months at the time of the car crash. I lost everything that I ever loved in a split second. The mourning and the subsequent wishes of goodwill never penetrated.
I became a carefully constructed version of myself—one with a vice.
A dark, deviant vice.
There’d be no rugby, no hunting, and no teaching my beautiful tyke. He was gone too soon.
The car accident ended with them blown to smithereens. We buried two boxes for the sake of my townspeople. Insides crumpling, I survived for my duchy.
Shite, I don’t even know what has just transpired. “Come back to us, son,” Burt implored seconds before I pushed him and gave Graham a thrashing.
I grab the crystal snifter off the mantel and pour myself a shot of whiskey. I haven’t considered Jude since his death. I think of Emeli fleetingly, but Jude, no. Just a few sips and I can rid my mind of my boy. He no longer belongs in my thoughts. The dead have no place with the living.
Luxury comes into the room, eyes testing me to react. “Victor, I’m going home.”