Total pages in book: 178
Estimated words: 170884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Molly poured herself a cup of coffee. “Seriously. It’s like seeing your hot mum making out with her newest boy toy.” She swept out her arm toward Twitch. “And her boyfriend is a tattooed tank who doesn’t wear his shirt around the house. Ugh. Gross.”
I tipped my head back and laughed out loud.
This was why I loved Molly. Her level of sass was extraordinary.
“Whatever.” I struggled out of Twitch’s hold, and as I did, he made a low growl in his throat. I touched a gentle hand to the neatly trimmed scruff on his face, and stated, “I need to shower.”
Molly stepped closer. “Hey, Lex, you’ve got something right here.” She pointed at her collarbone, and when I made no move to, she took another step and made to wipe it off of me before she realized what the mark was. Her eyes widened in surprise before they narrowed then settled on Twitch with a glare. She spoke low, “How old are you? Fourteen?”
When Molly turned, shaking her head in disbelief, and walked out of the kitchen, Twitch lifted his leg and kicked out, catching her lightly on the butt. The moment her coffee spilled, she let out a sound of pure infuriation before spinning on him and screeching, “Jerk!”
And that was my cue to leave.
I made my way into the bathroom, and the sounds of family argument settled upon me, making me feel both light and happy.
Seriously.
I was a freak.
***
Twitch
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Molly sat on the sofa with A.J. on her lap and her eyes watched me intently. Her voice remained sweet as she ran a hand through my son’s hair.
I looked up from my phone. “Should I?”
A.J. was on his tablet, his ears covered with headphones as he watched some stupid show where grown-ass men and women unboxed surprise eggs and showed the youngsters at home what they got. I seriously didn’t get the things kids watched these days. It was obscure.
And people thought I had problems.
“You knew my dad,” was all she followed with, and when she didn’t continue, I lifted my hand and threw her a “give me more” gesture. She took in a deep breath and let me have it. “I was about eight years old, and when you walked into our house, I hid behind a bannister, watching you.” She smiled. “I was convinced you were a Mokoi.” When I frowned, she explained, “An Aboriginal spirit who kidnapped and ate children. My dad told us stories about the Mokoi. They were tall and unusually thin with dark hair and red eyes, and they slept high up in the trees, looking out for their next victims. The Mokoi were undead, born of dark magic, and they often bore the souls of those who misused magic in life.”
At my perplexed stare, she looked at me and bit her overly full bottom lip, her melodic voice haunted. “My home life was not good, and even though I was just a child, I felt I was better off taking a chance with a Mokoi than to stay where I was.” She lowered her face and looked down at my son with an affection she reserved only for him. “I was barefoot and dirty. My curls were badly tangled, the t-shirt I wore was torn, and the soles of my feet were bleeding.” She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. “And I approached you, put my sticky hand in yours, and said—”
Oh, fuck.
I remembered her.
How could I forget?
“I’m ready,” I completed her sentence, blinking at her in disbelief.
She nodded, her eyes shining. “Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “You looked at the state of me and knelt down, wiping the tears from my cheeks. See, I was sad that I’d never see my sisters again, because when a Mokoi took you, you didn’t come back. You looked mean, but you were kind to me, and for a split second, I was okay with you eating me.”
Ah, shit.
I thought about my son in a similar situation and my chest ached.
It was a hard limit for me. I never could stomach cruelty to children.
“But you did something I didn’t plan,” the little woman enlightened.
Yeah. I recall.
I looked down at my son and muttered quietly, “I killed your father.”
She smiled widely, nodding. “Yeah. Shot him dead, right in front of me.”
My brows knitted. “I never meant for that to happen.”
“I know,” she said on a hush. “But it changed my life. It changed my sisters’ lives too. Our dad...” She paused. “...was a cruel man. He liked to psychologically torment us, and when that didn’t work, he physically punished us.” Her lips thinned. “For nothing more than being girls.”
Monty “The Butcher” Holden was a pig of a man, and I had no guilt over killing him.
I was confused though. “How did you end up here?”