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)
At the last second, the very last absolute second, Bastian slams on the brakes, quite possibly bumping against the guy’s shins.
“Stay in your seat.” His voice is deep and deadly and there is no pause or moment’s hesitation. Bastian is out the door before the car has fully settled into park.
“Got a message for me, Brayshaw?” he spits at who must be Royce as he had mumbled about killing him a few times on the short drive. “I’m here. Serve it up.”
His fists clench and unclench at his sides, shoulder stiff and ready, and when the Brayshaw offers him the first shot, Bastian takes it.
He clips him clean across the jaw and I pull my legs into the seat with a smile.
Royce spits to the side, coming back with a smile. “Bass fucking Bishop.” He comes closer. “Welcome back, motherfucker.”
Then it’s on.
Right away, Bastian is knocked against the hood and I glare as he swiftly rights himself, his leg sweeping out to knock the man on his ass. Good.
If he dented this baby, I might join in on this. It’s way too pretty to be touched.
Maybe I’ll ask to drive her home.
Deep grunts and growls demand my attention and I watch Bastian’s every move. The way his muscles flex and lock and the power he throws behind every punch. I know immediately he’s not going full force. I’ve seen him hit to hurt with Kenex and Kylo. He’s not fighting to ruin or destroy. He’s fighting to let off steam. To temper his anger. I wonder if it’s due to unspoken respect for the man he’s going against or for the sake of his sister, just in case.
Either way, watching him work might be my new favorite pastime. I want to spar with the man, get sweaty and fight against his strong grip, roll around on the mats until we’re panting from exhaustion and then from something else.
I can picture it now.
A loud thunk clears my head. Royce has Bastian in a headlock, and they both go down, Royce having expected Bastian to give him all his weight and keeping his hold tight.
Fuck this guy.
Rolling my window down, I sink my nails into his silky hair and yank.
His head darts up, eyes narrowing on me in surprise. “The fuck?!” he shouts, banging his head against the door to jerk himself free.
I dig my nails deeper.
Bad boy.
“I said stay in your fucking seat!” Bastian shouts.
“I’m in the fucking seat.” I smirk at his blotchy red face. “You said nothing about the window.” Bastian growls his warning, eyes flaring and promising punishment, but I don’t even get to enjoy the heated glare. Royce opens his mouth again.
“Hey, Pamela Anderson’s spawn, get your fucking hands off me, or you’re gonna have problems,” he spits.
I could almost laugh. Seriously.
“Oh.” I push my bottom lip out. “I’ve got plenty of those. What’s one more?”
“How ’bout one that ends with a knife in your side?”
The feminine voice reaches my ears, and all at once, the three of us look toward it.
Standing there on the pretty porch is the gorgeous, opposite of me in every way, dark-haired girl from the party. The one Bastian laughed and joked and spent time with, then denied me even a second of his attention in my moment of desperation. Raven. Her name is Raven.
Yes, I dug a little.
I’m so focused on her I hardly notice the girl beside her or the fact that the other Brayshaw brothers have joined our little playdate in their driveway.
I keep my eyes locked on the dark-haired girls, tugging even harder, but this time, Royce chooses not to let it be known. I wonder why that is, but then Raven flips a knife open, running it along her finger, her eyes jumping back to mine. “Been a while since I’ve got to use this baby. Give me a reason to.”
A shocked laugh bubbles out of me, and then it breaks free once more.
Is she for real? She wants to play?
My free hand slips inside the front pocket of my skirt, wrapping around my own blade, but then I feel Bastian’s laser-sharp stare.
Reluctantly, I lock my gaze with his and it’s all there, written in his marbly blues.
He knows.
He knows I’m good for the challenge and will play to win. The others might not see, likely don’t catch it, but he gives the slightest jerk of his chin. Letting me know he’s well aware of what an opponent I would be, almost like he’s attempting to stroke me like I’m a kitten, with his eyes alone, to make me purr at his silent acknowledgment that I am better in his eyes, yet still he says, “Cut it, Rich Girl. Let the bitch go.”
My eyes narrow.
Is he worried about her or about what the others will try in the aftermath?