Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 72056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
"That's hitting below the belt," I say dryly.
"Is it? What's the difference, Hannah? Tell me so I understand."
He's serious. When he uses my name, he's always serious.
“Fine,” I say. "Tell me it wasn't you, then. You already admitted to killing them. How does it make any sense that you're not the one who cut out their hearts?”
"I've already said it wasn't me. Do you think you'll believe me more freely if I say it again? And then again? How many times do I have to say it, princess? Two? Ten? A hundred?"
Before I can reply, the driver screeches to a halt, and I tumble into Rogan's arms.
He grabs my arm. "We're going upstairs, princess. Up to my penthouse. And you will never, never mention this again."
"But I—"
"What the fuck did I just say?" He bolts from the back seat, dragging me with him.
"Are you kidding me, Rogan? It's not enough when I have to come when my father calls? You can think again if you assume I'm going to obey you without question."
"You will obey me in this, princess. You have no choice."
"Like I said"—I wrangle my arm out of his grasp—"you can think again."
I turn and race down the alley behind The London. I'm still not convinced that Rogan didn't cut those hearts out, no matter how much he denies it, and if he won't be truthful with me, I'll find out on my own. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm acting on my father's orders and that I have no choice but to do so.
Damned blood.
I'm not bound by blood to Victor Rogan, though, and I'll be damned if I take orders from him, mate or not.
I race through the alley, dodging the occasional tourist who makes his way off the strip and behind the resort, until—
Thud!
I'm flat on my back, and a wolf's paws are holding my shoulders down.
Rogan. He growls at me, the irises of his eyes swirling.
"Get off me, you fucking son of a bitch."
He growls again, and it occurs to me that "son of a bitch" has a new meaning when it comes to a canine.
But only for an instant. Then the rage hits. The rage I've been holding in since the beginning of this ordeal. My gums tingle, and a sharp pain lances through me as my cuspids descend.
I turn, sink my teeth into the furry leg holding me down.
And I drink. I drink the blood of my wolf.
Yes, Rogan's blood. It's even more potent when he's in animal form. I don't get much as there isn't a good artery on the canine foreleg, but just the few drops I get trickle into me and infuse me with strength, with power, all while they sate a hunger I didn't know I had.
He rips his paw from me, and I take the opportunity to spring to my feet. The blood boils into me, making me stronger and quicker, and I turn.
I turn and resume my run.
Where am I going? I don't know. I know only that I must run from Rogan, run from the yearning and emotion that paralyzes me when I'm with him. Run from the urge to take him at his word when all evidence points to him lying. I can't find out who defiled the bodies of those vampires if I'm constantly drawn to their killer.
Go back.
Go back to him.
I shove the inner voice of my need to the back of my mind, quieting it with sheer will.
If Rogan is still in wolf form, he can catch me. He will catch me. In fact, I expect to be flat on the ground again any second now—so much that I look over my shoulder to make sure he's not following me.
And then I curse my acute vampire vision.
My beautiful wolf lies in a clump of fur—right in the same place where I left him.
Just go, Hannah. For God's sake, go!
Even as my mind forms the words, though, I know I can't. I will go back to him. My heart pumps rapidly, and not from my run. Fear pounds through me. What has happened to Rogan? Why is he—
A pin prick. "Ow!" I slap at my neck...
And then everything goes dark.
39
For your own good.
I had to do it.
Stop it. Stop fighting me!
Words. Voices. All familiar yet none recognizable, as if I'm underwater and everything is distorted.
Blurred images hover above me, and my head... It doesn't ache so much as it's just a mass of jelly that feels like it could implode at any moment. Am I restrained? I’m not sure.
For a moment, I think I hear Rogan, but last I saw him... Yes, last I saw him he was passed out in wolf form in a hidden alley behind The London.
Again the voices. Familiar... My father? My stepfather?
Then—
A blurred image clears, and my father reveals himself.