Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“No, now is the perfect time.” I step forward and offer a hand, smiling like a madman. “Danny Black. Welcome to Hell.”
“Umm . . . Quinton,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose as he accepts. “Lovely house you have here.”
“Yes, beautiful, isn’t it?” I reply, just as Goldie passes carrying a new rug on her shoulder.
“Doesn’t look much like hell.”
I laugh, head thrown back. “You just got here, Quinton. Give it time.”
“He’s just playing,” Beau says, muscling me out of the way.
“Am I?”
She rolls her eyes as Zinnea, still reading the room and concluding a shitstorm is brewing, takes Quinton’s arm, clearly ready to haul him out of here.
“Quinton, this is my husband, James.” Beau points to James. Problem is, he isn’t James right now. He’s The Enigma. I chuckle when Beau jabs James in the ribs and he forces a smile. “The others are in the kitchen. I’ll take you there, introduce you.”
“No, no, no.” Zinnea starts moving toward the front door with Quinton hanging on to her arm. “It’s obviously a bad time. We’ll get out of your hair. I just thought it was about time he met the men.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Zinnea,” I say, taking the handrail on the stairs and leaning on it, crossing one leg over the other. “We’re on lockdown.”
“God damn it,” she says, quickly looking at Quinton and apologizing for her blue language. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” Beau rushes to tell her. “Everything is fine.”
“Yes, except someone just tried to kidnap my daughter, kill my wife, someone has kidnapped Brad’s son, Pearl’s upstairs with endless broken bones, the spa’s been blown up, and Brad fucked a virgin worth one-hundred-million-dollars, which might mean the Russians, Mexicans, and a psycho cunt from England could attack us imminently.” I take a drag of my cigarette and finish my Scotch. “But other than that, everything is tickety-fucking-boo.”
“Good Lord,” Zinnea murmurs, as Quinton blinks repeatedly, and Beau scowls at me.
I bare my teeth at her, and she flings me a look to suggest I should pack it in. It’s fine. I’m done.
“Brad’s son?” Zinnea asks. “A virgin?”
“I’ll explain.” Beau gives me one final scowl before ushering her aunt and the boyfriend off into the kitchen.
“Where the hell is Brad?” I ask, looking up the stairs.
“Esther cooked. You should eat.” James follows Beau, and I trudge after them, scanning the room when I make it there. No wife. No daughter. I find Mum spooning stew into a bowl and passing it to the Vikings. I can see the guilt still lingering in them. Mum nods toward the garden, so I head there. I find Rose at the back near the summer house pushing Maggie in her stroller, a Doberman flanking each side. Guarding her. They sense the looming danger.
I stand watching her for a while, remembering the first time she encountered my dogs. When she was my guest. After I’d held her hand against a burning hot toaster. She didn’t feel pain back then.
She does now.
As do I.
Excruciating, crippling, debilitating pain.
She reaches the end of the path and turns, the dogs turning in a perfect circle with her, stopping for a moment, before walking on when she starts pushing the stroller again. And when Rose sees me and stops, the dogs stop too, sitting. I take one step toward my wife and daughter.
And they growl, teeth bared.
“Heel,” Rose says calmly. They lie down. “I needed some fresh air.”
“I needed some love.” I approach with caution. I don’t mind admitting I’m a little wary of being mauled by Cindy and Barbie. They’ve learned to protect the women and children before anyone else.
“Away,” Rose says, a wry smile on her face, and they dash off.
I hook an arm around her neck and pull her in, pushing my face into her hair. I don’t tell her everything will be okay. I don’t tell her not to worry. And I definitely don’t tell her to be strong for me. All pointless, wasted words. She’s been with me long enough to know the drill. I peek down at Maggie as she sleepy snorts, pulling the blanket across her face. To think she was almost taken. My stomach turns, but I tamper down the anger. I need a level head. I need information.
“I’m not going to ask what you’re planning,” Rose says, her words muffled.
“If you did, I’d tell you.”
She pulls out and looks up at me. “I’m tired of worrying.”
I feel at her cheek. “And I’m tired of killing.” Dipping, I kiss her gently, seeking entry with my tongue. She moves in closer, her front pressed to mine, and our kiss soon becomes unstoppably firmer, more desperate, her hands in my hair, my palms holding her face. My dick swells, rubbing into her, and I groan, taking one hand to her arse and pushing her farther into me. Rose and I have always been similar. It’s what pulled us together in the first place. Dangerous lust. Unthinkable pasts. A fucked-up connection neither of us could control. Today, she killed a woman for messing with her family. And true to our fucked-up relationship, it turned me on. No second chances. It’s been a stark reminder. Trust no one.