Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 121389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
“Finally!” Arwen rose from the rickety bench on the porch, settling the cool gray of his perfectly fitted suit jacket around himself. “I thought you’d never get back.”
Ivan wasn’t the least surprised to find his cousin haunting his doorstep. Ivan had been out of touch for over a week. His entire family was made up of fiercely independent individuals, but they were powerful because they were also a unit. As such, they kept in regular contact—or as Canto termed it, provided “proof of life.” Especially when they were on their own in unfamiliar surroundings.
Most people, however, would’ve just given him a call or sent him a message.
Not Grandmother. And not Arwen.
“Why didn’t you go inside?” Ivan said as he pushed open the door.
“Are you kidding?” Arwen poked his salon-perfect dark head cautiously through the doorway. “Who knows what booby traps you’ve laid.”
“This is just a place to crash. Nothing here I want to protect.” He went to make a nutrient drink. “You hungry?”
“Not for that,” Arwen muttered with a shudder. “I eat real food now.”
Arwen had always been different, gentler, kinder, more vulnerable. Because Arwen was an empath, and he’d made the family better simply by existing. It was difficult to be evil when an empath was trying to give you his toys when he thought you were sad, and crying because you’d gotten a scratch or a cut.
Ivan didn’t know how Arwen could be that open to the world and survive—it was a point on which he, Canto, and Silver agreed. They’d always done everything in their power to shield outwardly suave Arwen.
Reality was that the man had no sense of self-preservation when it came to caring for the people who were his own; if Ivan needed it, Arwen would cut off his own arm and give it to him. It was who he was. Good. Just good in a way Ivan had never been nor ever would be. But Lei … yes, she had the same radiant center as his cousin.
Ivan would spill blood without compunction to protect her.
Because a world that held empaths also held monsters.
Gut tight at the thought of what was coming, what he had to tell her, he turned to lean back against the small counter—to see Arwen making a face at the painting that hung on the wall.
“This is so cliché country classic that it might as well come with the tinny music they put in those kitschy greeting cards,” he pronounced with a shudder.
Yet Ivan had witnessed this same man sit quietly beside a homeless person, accept a cup of tea from a dirty hand. Arwen was a contradiction in terms, but one thing never changed: the kindness within. Fashion and décor might be the target of his scorn, but he’d never turn that rapier judgment on a person.
Ivan’s empath cousin didn’t know about Ivan’s homicidal little hobby, could never know about it. Some stains were too dark, needed to be worn only by the one affected. Grandmother, of course, had figured it out—but Ena Mercant was made of grit and stone and will. She’d handled it even if she continued to disagree with his stance on the matter.
Ivan thought some people needed killing. So he took care of it. The end.
“Where did you find this place?” Arwen muttered as he continued to walk around the small space. “Log Cabins United?”
“Private rental. Closest spot to the RockStorm den I could locate.” He drank half the glass of nutrients. “Arwen?”
Arwen was poking hesitantly at the dusty coat of what looked to be a stuffed hamster. “Oh, thank goodness. It’s fake.” He exhaled. “Though … I suppose you wouldn’t want to be in changeling territory and have actual stuffed animals mounted on plinths.”
He turned, hands on his hips, his jacket pushed back. “I’ll have to make sure I check up on you more often or next thing I know, you’ll be wearing checked shirts and camo pants and singing ‘Yee-haw I’m a mountain man.’”
Sometimes, Ivan wondered what media Arwen consumed that he could come up with those statements. “I need advice.”
Slightly widened eyes.
Ivan had never, not once, said those words to the family empath. And Arwen, to his credit, had never pushed him—though Ivan had sensed long ago that Arwen was distressed around him. Not the distressed of repulsion, but the distressed of knowing something was wrong and being unable to do anything about it.
Poor Arwen, unable to fix a member of his beloved family.
“You can ask me anything, Ivan,” his cousin said now. “I’m a vault when it comes to private talks.” His expression was solemn, nothing in it of the apparently shallow man who’d decried the cabin’s décor.
Ivan inclined his head; he knew that the Arwen who’d tried to help him by giving him his toys still lived in the sophisticated man that child had become. “I’m … fascinated by a woman.” That was the only word that felt right. “I can’t stop thinking about her. I dream of her.”