Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“You have three minutes.”
He slammed the door.
I had no doubt he meant I had precisely three minutes. He’d always been a Nazi when it came to time. Tardiness was as much an affront to him as disobeying a command or spilling brotherhood secrets.
Turning to stare at the bathroom, I pursed my lips. The grout between the tiles was blackened, the shower curtain covered in grime, and the toilet filthy. The air was rank with mildew and smelly drains.
Who lived here? Was it just Rubix and his second son, or had he patched in more members and shared his home? I remembered the layout of the compound from when Arthur and I would explore from fence to fence. The piece of land had approximately twenty homes all dotted in an ever-widening circle. But the Clubhouse and my parents’ home had been the crown right in the center.
Quickly relieving my bladder, I splashed my face with cold water and drank as fast as possible straight from the tap.
The door wrenched open before I had time to dry my face. Not that I’d touch his towels—probably covered in E. coli.
Rubix narrowed his eyes, his gaze trailing down my nightshirt-encased body. He smirked as he took in my scars—the scars he put there. “Pity the burns make you ugly, isn’t it?” He licked his lips, looking at my left side. The ink that ran from my collarbone to my little toe was an intricate mural of blues, reds, and greens. “If it were me, I would’ve covered up the scars with the tattoo. Hide your awful disfigurement.” His forehead furrowed. “Why didn’t you?”
Because I’m not ashamed of wearing my scars or from finding strength in them.
Yanking a few squares of toilet paper free from the holder, I dried my face and threw the wadded tissue in his direction. “Curious or just trying to figure out how I survived you?”
He ducked my missile, green eyes darkening. “Neither. Just making conversation.”
I snorted. “Everything you say is loaded with ulterior motives, never just conversation. Always has been.” My mind skipped back to snide comments over the years as I grew up in his shadow.
“You really shouldn’t draw that way. It’s not very good.”
“Your father sure doesn’t care about your welfare if he lets you walk around wearing that.”
“Jesus, Cleo, could your voice be any higher and annoying?”
Most of them had been said in jest, with a cheek-pinch or a licorice allsorts being given, but the desired effect never failed.
His words were the only way he could hurt me back then.
Now he could hurt me any damn way he wanted.
My father was dead. The men loyal to him most likely dead, too, or joined with Rubix under fear of torture.
I was alone.
My heart panged for Arthur. I didn’t care that I had no one to rely on—I’d spent most of my life that way—but now that I’d found Arthur again, those feelings of togetherness only amplified the echoing emptiness of loneliness.
“You’re right. I never quite grasped the art of straight shooting.” Rubix grinned. “Always preferred to deal my true thoughts in thinly veiled bullshit.” His nostrils flared, his eyes taking yet more liberties of my scantily dressed figure. “How about I forgo the veils and just tell you point-blank, hey?”
My skin crawled. “Fine.”
Tilting his head, he said, “I think you’re a stuck-up fucking princess who was raised by a redneck and pampered by a whore. You warped my son’s mind and used your pussy to divide my family.”
In a flash, he pounced. Shoving me against the vanity, he wrapped fingers around my throat, the cold porcelain dug into my lower back. “How’s that for the fucking truth?”
Tears sprang to my eyes as he squeezed my neck. My hands shot up to cover his, clawing at his hold. “Not … truth …,” I gasped, hating the way my larynx squeaked from being crushed. “Insanity.”
He choked me harder.
Our faces were so close, his nose brushed mine. It was as if he tried to wring me dry—waiting to see what lies and secrets spewed forth.
My eyes bugged, the pressure of not being able to breathe pounding in my head.
Then … he let me go.
I collapsed at his feet, sucking in air with loud inhales.
His large boots stayed glued to the floor as I panted and coughed and slowly dragged enough oxygen into my bloodstream to halt the screech of death.
Keeping my head down, I muttered brokenly, “What you believe … it’s not the truth—just lies you fed yourself over and over.” Rubbing at the blazing pain in my throat, I wheezed, “I loved you. You scared me and I always felt as if I disappointed you, but you were the father of the boy I loved. I wanted your blessing. I wanted to be a part of your family as much as mine.” Every word bruised my larynx but if I could somehow get him to believe me … perhaps I stood a chance at getting free without more pain.