Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
“I don’t want to make excuses for myself because, trust me, I’m well aware of what I could have done, even if I still believe the outcome would have been a really fucked-up one, but I warned you. I told you this would happen. I told you my world was unforgiving and unwelcoming, but I still wanted you. Having you was enough for me and a part of me believes I should hate you because having me wasn’t enough for you.”
He jerks forward then, gripping my chin and lifting it so I have to look up at him as he speaks through clenched teeth.
“Got that one right. It ain’t. Never gonna be, ’cause to be mine means everyone needs to know what they can’t have, can’t touch, and most aren’t even allowed to look at. It means everyone knows what’s at risk if they dare. It means everyone who does learns a lesson so their mistake isn’t repeated. There is no other option. Not when it comes to you. They can take anything of mine and burn it to the fucking ground and I will not bat a lash, but you?” His eyes flare with rage. “I told you from the gate. I warned you what would happen. This is the result.”
The way the words leave him sends a sense of dread through me, his eyes flaring with a deeper meaning I can’t decipher.
When I speak, I tread lightly. “I need you to understand I’ve had nothing for myself, not completely. You were the only thing I had that was only mine. My dad.” My chest aches at the mention of him. “He … he’s had his hands in every aspect of my life in one way or another.”
He scoffs. “That right there is the understatement of the fucking year.”
I frown, shaking my head. “It’s true. You’re the only thing I chose selfishly.”
“But did you?” he fires back, getting in my space and backing me up until the back of my calves meets the side of the couch. “Did you choose me? Did you ‘pick me’ like I did you? Truly and completely.” He presses closer. His body hard against mine. His hand slides down the underside of my throat. His eyes burn a trail along its path as he whispers, “Absolutely fucking psychotically?”
There’s a reckless edge to his tone, a thread of warning that has me shivering.
My tongue pokes out to wet my lips and his eyes slice toward the contact, his teeth sinking into his own as a low groan escapes him.
“I warned you, Rich Girl. I told you you were mine and what that meant. Everyone had to know. Everyone had to understand.”
My brows pull, unease weaving up my spine. “Understand what?”
“What happens to people who touch or dare to fuck with what’s mine.”
We stare at each other for a long minute, and while his words are clear, the meaning behind them is lost on me, but then I hear my phone ring in the room somewhere and reality slams back into me.
“Oh my god.” I scurry away, eyes flicking around as I search for where the sound is coming from, panic forming a knot in my throat.
Please be good news, please be good news.
I freeze as it rings again, looking to Bass, who pulls it from his pocket and holds it out with a sharp glare. My sister’s name flashes across the screen and my breathing grows short as I flash back to the call that came the day my mother died.
My twin, who I was separated from for the first time in my life, called to tell me our mother was dead and that she was all alone when she found the body.
My eyes burn, clouding over, but still, Bass holds my cell hostage.
“Bastian, I need to answer. It could be about what happened—”
“It’s not,” he cuts me off.
My mouth opens but closes quickly. “How do you know what I was going to say?”
“Lucky guess.”
My eyes narrow, and his words from moments ago come back.
He said they had to know, that they had to understand, not that they need to or will.
Had. Past tense.
No. No.
He wouldn’t … I mean, he couldn’t … could he?
My eyes fall to the new shoes and jeans, to the gleaming diamond-encrusted watch around his wrist and my pulse pounds wildly in my ears.
I stare at him in horror, but his expression remains as unreadable as ever.
“Bastian … what did you do?”
His gaze hardens, but I can see beyond the anger, down deeper to the fractured soul inside, the one that speaks to mine. He says nothing, but when my phone rings again, this time, he answers, the device held between us as he puts it on speaker.
I can’t find my voice, but I don’t have to. The person on the line speaks for me.