Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
It had been a couple of hours at most. And Swiss was gone.
He was gone because we were back at the club, because he knew I was safe here. Because he thought that I would sleep through the night now. He was gone because of my nightmares. Because of the rasp in my voice. The bruises around my throat. The scar on my stomach.
I knew he wouldn’t leave me for anything but revenge. To feed the thing inside him that demanded blood, retribution for what had been done to me.
Preston.
They had him, somewhere.
I vaguely remembered the conversation we’d had about it.
Of course, they’d found him. And they weren’t going to hand him over to the police. Not after what was done to me.
He was going to die.
My first, primitive instinct to that was glee. Utter freaking joy.
But then reality rushed in.
The father of my child was going to die.
Violet, who loved her dad, thought he hung the moon, was going to lose him. Sally and Frank were going to lose their son. And I would have to construct some kind of narrative. I would have to lie about it. To their faces.
To my daughter’s face.
Suddenly, the room was stifling, suffocating. The place that had been my refuge was now a prison.
I pulled back the covers, crossing the room as quickly as I could with my current injuries, intent on fresh air. On relief.
I didn’t bump into Swiss on my short journey out to the back patio area of the clubhouse. I hadn’t expected to. If he truly was somewhere hurting Preston, there would be no crisp fall breeze. There would be only stale, underground air mixed with the stench of blood. Just the thought of it chilled my exposed arms.
I was wearing only Swiss’s tee and nothing else. No shoes. The stone patio was cool against my feet, and I sat down on a step that led out to a grassy area. There was a playground for the kids, a vegetable garden—Macy’s idea—and fire drums. Someone—again, likely Macy—had strung fairy lights through the trees, so the area was faintly illuminated. The sun was just starting to kiss the horizon, but it was mostly dark.
Quiet too. There wasn’t even the harmony of cicadas that I’d become used to. No birds signaling the incoming morning.
Nothing but the shriek of my thoughts.
I must’ve been on that step for a while because the sun got progressively brighter.
“Jesus, Countess,” a voice sounded from behind me, a mixture of relief and agitation threading through it.
I jumped, even though the voice was familiar. Swiss stomped around to face me, his eyes stormy. He was still wearing the same clothes from earlier. There was a small spec of blood high on his cheekbone.
“You scared me to fuckin’ death,” he clipped, bending down to pull me up. “And you’re chilled to the goddamn bone.” He rubbed my arms. “Let’s get you inside.”
I pulled out of his grip, even though I ached to sink into his warmth.
His eyes flared in surprise and what looked to be irritation.
“Did you kill him?” I asked. My voice would’ve been flat if not for the uneven tenor caused by my still healing throat.
Swiss’s expression cleared. “No,” he replied right away. “Not yet. He’s got a long way to go before he’s lucky enough to die.”
My knees started to shake. Not at the casual way Swiss was talking about killing, torture. Not even at the way something inside him burned with satisfaction. With hunger. Not even because the person he was talking about was the man I was married to.
No, all of that didn’t surprise or affect me. Although before all of this, Swiss had not shown me this part of himself—not entirely, at least—I knew existed. Knew that violence was a part of him. He’d shown me that the very first night.
My mind was not on Swiss. Not on Preston. Not even on myself.
“You can’t kill him,” I pled.
Swiss blinked very slowly. Once. Twice. “What?”
“You can’t kill him,” I repeated.
He stared at me. “You’re asking me to let the man who almost killed you live.”
I shook at his tone, but he didn’t pull it back, didn’t gentle his features.
He was too far gone.
“You want me to let the man who tormented you, beat you for years, live. The man who bruised you, scarred you, who discarded you in a fuckin’ ditch to die… You want me to let him continue to breathe air.”
When put that way, it sounded rather crazy. Preston did deserve to suffer. He did deserve to die. I wasn’t caught up on the ethics of it all, what version of justice needed to be served. I was caught on one simple fact: my daughter did not deserve to lose her father.
“I want you to let the father of my child continue to live, yes.” I forced my voice to be even in the face of Swiss’s fury.