Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“I’m so far beyond fucking caring at this point.” Cillian clenched his fists. “You’ve been using that to ride my arse the entire production. I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck.”
What was a minor scandal like that after losing Brendan? What the fuck did a little social media gossip matter just because some people would think his kinks were sick or weird, and a few tabloids would blow it out of proportion for clicks? He stared at Newcomb. Suddenly the menace the man possessed was nothing but a veneer of slime over his small, disgusting personality; over his venal little mind.
Why had Cillian been afraid of someone like this—so afraid that he fucked himself over again and again and again?
Newcomb’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t say anything you’d regret.”
“I won’t regret any of this.” Cillian’s breaths came fast, hard. “Go ahead. Publicly humiliate me. It’ll suck for a few months, and then no one will care and I’ll move on with my life, and find better things to worry about than you. Maybe I won’t have a career anymore, but that won’t matter. No matter what happens to me, you’ll still be filth. A sick, weak, disgusting man who can’t do any better than what you are now.”
The entire time he’d spoken, Newcomb had only stared at him, eyes slowly widening, his expression hardening into deep-grooved lines of fury, of disgust, face the livid purple of rage. He worked his lips until they writhed like worms, contorting into a twisted snarl.
“You piece of pathetic trash,” Newcomb spat. “You sad little piece of cheap arse, do you think you’d have gotten anywhere without using your body? That’s all you’re good for, you and every last little twink who thinks he wants to be a star.” His shoulders bunched, muscle coiling under his layers of clothing to make him seem to swell in size as he strode toward Cillian, hands rising, reaching, curling into claws hooked with purpose, with intent. “How dare you—”
“Fuck off, Newcomb,” Cillian said tiredly.
Newcomb surged at him. Cillian rocked back on his heel, sidestepping, letting his frustration, his irritation, his hurt, his fear, his loss, his fucking broken heart build up inside him like this massive ball of kinetic force, pouring into his fists, into the tense curl of his arm, into the strain in his shoulder as he drew back as far as he could, grit his teeth, clenched his knuckles—
And did exactly what he should have done the first time this prick tried to touch him.
He plowed his fist forward with all his strength.
Straight into Oliver Newcomb’s beady-eyed fucking face.
l
A CRY OF PAIN ECHOED over the central courtyard of the castle.
And Brendan stopped thinking.
He shoved past Drake, pelting toward the main entrance, his heart in his throat. He’d hoped he was only being paranoid. Hoped he was worrying over nothing. Ever since the day he’d met Cillian, he’d been uneasy when he couldn’t see where either Cillian or Newcomb were at all times—when that promise had waited in the air between them all for so long, and the idea of what Newcomb would do to Cillian if he ever managed to corner him alone…
A thousand images flashes through Brendan mind in the time it took him to bolt into the cold stone arches of the entryway and skid around the corner into the hallways, following the lingering echoes of that voice.
“Cillian? Cillian!” he called. “Cil—”
He pulled up short as someone came staggering around the corner.
And he realized that hadn’t been Cillian’s voice raised in pain.
Oliver Newcomb stumbled into the hallway, one hand clutched over his eye, though it couldn’t hide the rapidly swelling, purpling flesh around his socket. A red haze descended over Brendan’s vision.
“What did you do to him?” he snarled, thrusting himself into Newcomb’s path. “What did you do?”
He didn’t realize he was reaching for Newcomb, rage in every taut curl of his fingers, until suddenly Drake was there—catching on to his arm, dragging him back. “Brendan!”
Brendan fought Drake’s grip, straining, but Drake held on with all his weight, nearly dangling from Brendan’s arm, stopping him from gaining more than a few inches and entangling so all he could do was stare in furious frustration. If Newcomb looked like that…
How bad was Cillian?
Newcomb just stared at him in flat disgust, his smug arrogance completely unbroken, wrapped up in such self-righteous anger the air around him practically choked with it.
“Your time on this production is at an end,” Newcomb said icily. “So is his. We’ve filmed your scenes. You’re done. I don’t want to see your faces again.” He swept past Brendan with one last contemptuous glance. “And rest assured…you will both be hearing from my lawyers.”
Brendan nearly went for his throat.
He’d never considered himself a violent man. Never hurt anyone except in self-defense. But if not for Drake on his arm…