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)
He was barely fifteen then and his problems weren’t solved with the bullet—or two—he put in his head because then he was forced to make a choice, yanking himself away from the only person who ever did love him.
Slowly, I lean forward, planting my palms on the floor and working my way to him. I grip his hand in mine and stand. Reluctantly, he rises with me, allowing me to drag him back to the bed he tucked me into last night, and together, we dip under the covers. I wrap myself around him and he does the same, burying his nose in my hair.
A few moments pass, and he takes a heavy inhale. It’s not long after that his chest rises and falls with full, deep breaths, and I know he’s fallen back asleep, but I don’t. I keep stroking down his bare stomach. Every handful of minutes or so, he jerks, but I just keep touching him at the same steady pace and eventually, just as the sun begins to rise outside the slightly open curtains, his body relaxes completely.
I lie there, replaying the last few months in an attempt to avoid the last few days, but I can’t. I’m half tempted to crawl out of this bed and make my way back to Greyson Manor before he does, so I can speak to my father and the others alone. The only thing that’s stopping me is the utter chaos that would follow if Bastian blew up and ran in there half-cocked. Or all the way cocked, if that’s even a thing, because I’m not sure he does anything half-assed. My disappearing on him to run home definitely wouldn’t be the situation where that happened.
The sound of the door opening catches my attention, and when Bastian doesn’t stir in the slightest, I slip off the bed and out into the hall.
From the overlook at the top of the stairs, I spot Bastian’s friend Hayze coming out of a large steel door with one of those giant wheel-style locks dead center. He doesn’t close it, rather he leaves it hanging half-open as he stalks off in the opposite direction.
I make my way down, looking to where he disappeared before slipping through the door. No more than five steps down, it opens into a narrow walkway, creepy yellow-tinted lighting flickering along the path, almost as if it was intended to add to the serial killer vibe the place gives off.
It’s freezing in here and I only need one guess as to why. My dad’s “work” basement is the same.
I carry myself off the last step and move the next few feet. From here, I can see four doors in total, So, when I ease the first one open, I expect to see a narrow space, but instead, find a wide open one, but that’s not the shocking part.
Nor is it the giant chains hanging from steel bolted rings on the ceiling, three sets in total, all perfect distance from one another.
It’s not even the thick smears of blood on the one farthest from me, the poor attempt to hide whatever happened here revealing it’s not aged blood, but on the fresher spilled side.
No … it’s the long wooden box at the edge of it with the lid off. Inside, bunched up, there are red-stained sheets sticking out that garner my full attention.
Suddenly I wish I had shoes on as I inch my way closer, crossing my arms over my chest as the chill gets more severe within the new set of walls. I glance at the small splatters of blood trailing from the first set of chains to the second, noting the softball-sized stain beneath the second set, but I keep moving toward the end, toward the home-crafted coffin that can only have one thing inside it.
I’m three feet from it when a golden gleam catches my eye, and I turn my head to see what it is.
I would recognize the custom shade of gold anywhere.
Pivoting, I bend, picking the small item up off the little ledge it sits on.
I stare at it in my open palm, running my thumb along the Greyson G, but it’s not just the Greyson G. It’s the golden double-walled G of the Greyson Society, only crafted when it’s meant to be presented. The G that solidifies your spot in the Greyson Society.
My frown builds, doubling as I consider it, but it doesn’t take long.
“I warned him,” Bastian’s rasp comes from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to spot him leaning against the door, feet and chest still bare, black hair gloriously sticking up in all the wrong directions.
What a stupid thing to notice at a time like this, yet I can’t look away, and he cocks his head, studying me with a blank expression.
I think about the day in the hotel when I first took him in and spotted his new additions, a diamond-encrusted one, to be exact.