Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Slowly, his attention turns to me.
It’s like the sun coming out from behind clouds.
Which is normally nice. Except I didn’t wear sunscreen and he’s burning me up.
“Good morning,” he says.
I feel myself blushing. Why am I blushing? It’s not like we had sex or anything. All he did was sleep on my couch.
This big, gorgeous man, this rich mafia asshole, slept in my living room.
“You’re still here,” I manage to blurt out.
His lips curl. “Unfortunately. You know that futon monstrosity is the least comfortable thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of sleeping on?”
“Then you must be pretty lucky.” I chew my lip. “Can I have some coffee?”
“It’s your machine.” He pours me a mug, but before handing it over, he adds in milk and a tiny bit of sugar. “Just how you like it.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip. Then I pause, narrowing my eyes. “How did you know that?”
He ignores my question and pours his own coffee. He takes it black. Like the rotting depths of his soul.
“I made some calls,” he says, not looking at me, and I get the sense he just dodged my question on purpose. “Iain’s out of surgery.”
I stand up straighter. Coffee’s all but forgotten now. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s alive,” he says, glancing over. “The doctor sounded cautious. They’re not sure if he’s ever going to wake up, but the surgery went better than expected and now it’s time for him to heal.”
I slump back against the refrigerator. A small grunt escapes my throat. I should be happy, or maybe relieved, or maybe I should break down and sob for my dead family and my barely alive brother, or I should feel any emotion at all except for this total and utter drained exhaustion that seems to be wrapped around my middle. I’m tempted to crawl back into bed. Except Carson would still be here.
“That’s good news,” I finally manage.
“You don’t look like you’re happy about it.”
“I’m conflicted.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Why the hell am I admitting this to him right now? “Obviously I don’t want my brother to die. But at the same time, I don’t want him to suffer, and I sure as hell don’t want to get dragged through this mess all because of something stupid he did. That’s insanely selfish, right?”
“Would it have been easier for you if he died in surgery?”
I grimace, slumping forward, guilt piercing through my bones. “No. Of course not. I’m just angry still, that’s all. Angry and confused.”
“He wasn’t.”
I look up. Carson’s staring at me with that hungry-and-needy intensity again. “He wasn’t… what?” I ask.
“Confused. He understood what you wanted and even though he hated it, he respected your wishes. He kept his distance. He talked about you sometimes, you know.”
“Really? Why? I thought—” I hesitate, thinking back to the last time we spoke all those years ago, when I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him so long as he was in the Crowley family.
He was pissed. Livid, really, and we said some ugly things to each other. I kind of figured he was through with me.
“Your brother loved you,” Carson says simply.
And that’s the kick in the throat I need to finally start crying.
“Ah, shit,” Carson says, coming over to try to soothe me, but that’s like having a thousand-pound gorilla try to give me a back rub. I back away, wiping my face.
“It’s fine, I’m fine, it just hit hard hearing that he loved me, that’s all.”
“He was your bother.” Carson stops his advance, giving me space. “You loved him too.”
“I still do,” I admit, sipping my coffee. It burns my tongue, but at least it helps wash the tears down my throat. “I never stopped.”
“He understood. Even if he didn’t like it.”
I smile slightly. “He always was a stubborn asshole.”
“And loyal, and a good brother, even if you didn’t agree with his lifestyle choices.”
“Lifestyle choices?” I shake my head, standing up straight. I feel myself losing control and I need to remember why I put distance between myself and my family to begin with. “No, Carson, lifestyle choices are, like, getting piercings and tattoos, maybe fucking strangers or something like that. Lifestyle choices aren’t stealing, killing, selling drugs, committing crimes.”
“Is that what you think we do?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
He shrugs. “Well, you’re not, but there’s more to it.”
“Great, yeah, I bet you’re benevolent thugs, right? You steal from the rich and give to yourselves.”
“In a way.” He tilts his head, watching me. “Your brother ran a charity.”
“He ran a—” I stare at him then laugh. “Come on, that’s stupid. He didn’t run a charity.”
“It wasn’t official,” Carson admits. “But Iain made sure every single person living within a few blocks of your family was taken care of. Sidewalks shoveled, parking spots reserved, fed on holidays, entertained on weekends. He took care of his people.”