Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
The hallway is long, marbled, and clean. This house feels more like a museum than it does a home. Furnishings are oversized, the doors, staircase, and even the artwork the same. Yet among the pristine walls and silverware, I feel at home here. Much like I do back at the manor. I reach twin doors at the end, both handles dipped in gold to match the artistic paintings all over the ceiling and walls. My hand is on one, while the other is at my side. Should I knock? I should knock.
I push the doors open and freeze. Brantley is leaning against Veronica’s desk while she sits back looking up at him from her chair. From this angle, she looks snug between his legs. My stomach drops, and I’m almost certain all that granola I just ate is about to projectile out.
“Brantley…” I say, my fingers wrapping around the gold handle so tight I feel as though I might tear it right off the hinges. I might just kill the Devil. What an unexpected turn of events that would be.
He looks over his shoulder at me, unfazed. My eyes water, but I keep the tears down. Pain is begging to be felt, but it will have to wait. Anger is more important right now.
“Don’t ever touch me again.” I spin around and run out the way I came. So much for anger. My anger just dissolved into more pain and now I need my phone. Need Bishop. Need to be alone. What the hell am I doing here? I should be with him. My family. I know he’ll come to me right away; he always will.
“Saint!” I hear my name, but I can’t see. I can’t focus. Water has blurred my eyes, and all of the pretty art pieces I admired on the way down here are nothing but that—watercolor. Hands are around my wrist and I’m being tugged backward. “You’re fucking pissing me off.”
I pause when my face hits his chest, and I’m looking up at him through the tears.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his fingers on my cheek, swiping them away. “Fuck.” His arm is around my waist, his hands on my upper thigh as he picks me up from the ground.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” My heart is as bruised as the scars he leaves on my skin, yet my legs find themselves around his waist anyway. In this moment, I hate myself. I hate that I’m not strong enough to fight the way he makes me feel. I hate that as much as I feel sick to my stomach by what I just saw, I still need him to wrap me in his arms and tell me he’s mine.
He tugs on my hair to hold my head in place, his lips touching the shell of my ear. “As much as I love hearing such filthy words come out of that innocent little mouth, you’re not about to walk out thinking I’m fucking someone else.” He places me back onto the ground and closes the doors behind us. I realize we’re back in Veronica’s office, if that’s what you would even call it, and she’s still on her chair, legs crossed and a cigarette between her fingers.
“I don’t want to be here, or in the middle of whatever this is.” I turn to face Brantley. “You once asked me if it was something I could want.” I take another step. His eyes cross slightly when I come too close. “Maybe being with other people like so many are in the EKC world.” My fingers are at his chin, squeezing before he can answer. “The answer is no. I would have been happy with just you. Just you. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not about what the women in the EKC want, it’s about the men.”
“Saint?” He grabs my hand and squeezes, intertwining our fingers together while pulling me into his chest. He spins me around to face Veronica while his other hand is pressed against my lower belly, shoving me closer toward him until my back is hard against him. Veronica smirks, bringing the end of her cigarette to her lips. “Veronica is my mother.”
“I like it here,” I said as she gazed into the bedroom. This time she stood in the center, right beneath the light bulb. I wanted to push her, see how far she would go, but I had to remind myself why I was here.
“Who are you?” she asked. Such a simple question, yet simple was not something I was familiar with.
“I thought that was obvious?” I chuckled, circling the small room with a scrape of my nail. “Do you know what this room is?”
She followed me closely. Good. She was catching on.
“No. Though if I had to guess, I would say I’m dreaming.”
“Tsk, tsk…” I wiggled my finger. “Such a basic answer.”