Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“I don’t give a shit how many guards are surrounding her, I’ll take them all out,” Dante announces, and I have no doubt he could. Watching him in his element is something to behold.
“Why don’t we call The Fallen and see if they have any intel before we go hopping on a plane?” I suggest, knowing that the three men who work undercover and infiltrate these kinds of organizations will be able to help.
“I’ll call Falcon,” Dante says as he picks up his mobile, and I turn my focus to Harper, who’s sitting quietly, staring at the fireplace.
Harper has suffered her own horrors in the past. I can’t fathom what she’s been through, because she hardly talks about it, but I do know most of it involved her father. Parents are meant to love you and keep you safe, so when they break your trust in them, it’s hard to accept. I can’t imagine what goes on in her head at times.
Our pasts come to the forefront when we’re taking a life, and we become lost in the darkness. Our whispered promises of revenge are sometimes the only truths we utter.
I push to my feet, and making my way over to Harper, I settle beside her on the sofa and take her hand.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, but she doesn’t look at me. There’s silence between us for a moment, then she says, “I thought knowing my father was dead would heal something inside me.” Her chocolate brown gaze meets my green stare. “But I still feel this insurmountable anger. It’s as if it’s always going to be there. I don’t want to feel it, but I can’t prevent it.”
I know what she means. There is beauty in our broken pieces, though. We might be shattered from our pasts, but Dante, Harper, and I are all perfectly aligned when we’re together.
“We have all been through horrific things,” I tell her as I pull her hand to my lips and brush a kiss over her knuckles. Then turning her wrist over so her palm is facing up, I allow my mouth to press a gentle kiss to the soft flesh. “It’s what makes us survivors…we’re superhuman,” I continue. “There’s something special in us. They tried to steal it, but it’s still there. I can see it in you and in Dante.”
The corner of her mouth lifts slightly. “We’re superheroes. Is that why you spend all your time with us?” Her gaze flicks over my face before holding my stare hostage.
Shaking my head, I smile. “I don’t know how I would survive without the two of you. I would go on living, but I wouldn’t be happy. Not truly. I believe some people come into our lives for a reason. Maybe they appear when we need to be taught a lesson or need to learn more about who we truly are. I’m convinced the three of us were destined to find each other.”
Harper drops her head onto the back of the sofa, and her gaze locks on the ceiling. I look up with her and watch the patterns in the paint dance along the smooth surface.
My fingers tangle with hers. The warmth of her makes me smile.
Touch was difficult for me to accept for a long time. When Dante’s hand first met mine, I thought I was going to jump out of my skin. When anyone reached for me in captivity, it resulted in agony. I came to expect the brutality, but over the past year, I’ve learned there’s more to human contact than pain—there is also pleasure, and sometimes, the two tread a very fine line together.
“Falcon is sending me information on where the gala is going to be held,” Dante says as he stalks into the room once more. His gaze takes in the scene before him, and he arches a dark brow. “Am I missing something?”
“We were just thinking,” Harper says. “Thinking about what it would have been like if we’d had different lives. We were talking about the past and about needing revenge.” Her voice sounds far away.
“Dwelling on the past isn’t going to get us very far, my little mouse,” Dante tells her. “And you, little raindrop? Are you still stuck in the shit from your past?”
One thing about Dante, he lives up to his name. Savage. He’s cold, calculated, and doesn’t show emotion often. At times, I wonder if his cold heart will ever thaw. But I know he’s only asking these questions because he cares.
“We’ll always think about the past,” I tell him as I push to my feet. “We might be out of the hell we were thrown into, but it’s not something we can ever truly escape from.” I stalk toward him, stopping inches from his tall, muscular frame. I have to tip my head back so I can look up into those cold, blue eyes. “You, of all people, should know that no matter how many times you wash your hands, the blood on them still remains.”