Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
I have to agree.
I’m broken too.
But this kind of new broken hurts so good.
15
JAMES
There’s a fine line between want and need. Sometimes you can want something so much, you convince yourself you actually need it. Or, worse than that, think you’re entitled to it. It makes the withdrawal symptoms more prevalent. I no longer allow myself to want something. I refuse to fall into the realms of need.
I’m used to the misery.
The darkness.
The never-ending cycle of hate. Hate for the world. Hate for my family’s deaths. Hate for every person on this planet living.
Hate for myself for surviving.
Hate is easier to feel than love. It’s a consistent, reliable form of self-torture I’m in full control of. Other emotions are not. With that tainted, unnamed emotion, someone else is in control. Someone else delivers the torture.
I’m only capable of hate.
But as I stare at the woman beside me, her skin still damp, her screams of ecstasy still ringing in my ears, I feel no hate. I feel only purpose. I see a lost soul who’s fighting to navigate this world. I see desperation to escape. I see an equal, diabolical, deep-seated need for vengeance. And her scar? I reach forward and stroke down the length of her arm, from her shoulder to her wrist.
I see red. A mist of fury descends. It’s unstoppable.
I get up off the bed and stalk out, needing to walk it off before I wake her up and give her truths that unveil my darkness. No. Not happening.
I land at my desk and pull up the screens, loading the stock market and scanning the numbers. All numbers I like. There’s nothing to take my mind off things here. So I pull up my inbox and reply to every email. And once I’ve done that, I call Otto to check on the burner phone he’s been tracking for two years. Nothing.
Then it’s just me, my thoughts, and the darkness again. I close my eyes, and the first thing I see is our house. My family home in England. My father at the head of the table smiling as the maid serves dinner to his wife, son, and daughter. As the butler pours wine and water. As his best man, Otto, gives him a nod that all is well. In that moment, it was all well. The men were guarding the gate, ensuring we were safe. My father, the prolific Spencer James, lording it up on his country estate after finalizing a deal with the Serbians to supply London’s richest with the finest cocaine.
I was twenty-two years old. A master shooter. A fine gymnast. An unrivaled fencer. A genius mathematician. A university graduate. And my sister? An aspiring historian. Beautiful like our mother. Smart like our father. Nothing made Spencer James prouder than his multi-talented offspring. Nothing made my mother smile harder than her boy and her girl. That evening, my father declared world domination. He told us our future was bright and crime free. And the same evening, our home was blown up by the men my father took from.
My family lay in thousands of pieces amongst bricks and rubble. I dodged death. But watching Otto pull the teeth from my parents, my little sister, and our staff’s cindered remains, and then forcing me to neck half a bottle of vodka before he took one of mine, made me want to die.
And eventually, it made me want to kill.
16
BEAU
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, feeling James lying next to me. My breathing is still heavy. My wrists still bound. I turn my head on the pillow, finding him sprawled on his front, his eyes lightly closed, snoozing.
His back.
I use my stomach muscles to sit up, my body aching like it’s never ached before. Not even when I was recuperating after being bedridden for weeks. Not even when I’ve run miles and miles.
I get the full force of his injury. Every last millimeter of his flesh is scarred, uneven, and angry. It’s a sobering sight. It puts my own scar to shame. The front of this man is perfect. His chest, his thighs, his unfathomably stunning face. Even his messy hair is perfect. But the back of him?
I wince.
It’s gruesome.
Ashamed of my thoughts, I divert my stare to my wrists, wriggling to loosen the rope, the sores beneath raw. I hiss, the burn painful, and give up. I don’t want to wake him—he looks so peaceful. But I need to go home.
I glance around the room, wondering how many people he’s had in here. What has he done to them? And why does he do it? I look over my shoulder to his sleeping form. He looks too angelic, too perfect to be so . . . ruined. My eyes fall to his back again. Imperfection stares back at me.