 by Meagan Brandy.jpg)
Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
He’s rough, rugged, and utterly unpredictable.
He’s not cautious or contemplative. He’s a volcano. Silent and steady one second, and a nightmare in the next.
But that’s not the worst of it.
This guy? He’s an outsider and in my world outsiders don’t belong.
They’re unwanted, unwelcome and known to disappear without a trace, yet he doesn’t seem to care.
After one night of reckless rebellion, the tattooed tyrant keeps coming back, sneaking into my world without permission, and causing trouble I can’t allow.
I should end this now before my father discovers his existence and does it for me, but he won’t allow it.
He says, like it or not … I am his now, that nothing and no one will stand in his way.
What he refuses to understand is I’m a Girl of Greyson, a coveted queen of sorts in the underground crime world.
He’s a nobody, an insignificant man with nothing to his name, marking him a threat to my own.
We could never be, but he won’t hear it.
And me? I know exactly how this ends.
Or so I thought I did, until betrayal burns so deep that suddenly nothing makes sense.
Nothing but him…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Four Years Ago
The deepest, darkest shade of red runs in a steady stream, filling in the cracks of the concrete, not stopping when it meets the burned grass, but soaking into the roots and panning out like a flame with no fire.
So why the fuck is there a man in yellow trench pants standing ten feet from me, eyes wide and hands raised in the air? His mouth is moving, but if he’s speaking, I don’t hear shit.
No, that’s not right.
I hear something deep in the back of my mind.
Screams.
Cries of pain.
Cries for help.
Cries for mercy.
My vision blurs, and it’s as if time rewinds, my fucked-up head forcing me to relive what led me right here, right now …
“Please, no. Please, don’t. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet.”
“You’re worthless.”
Smack.
“Useless.”
Smack.
“Trash.”
Crash.
More cries.
The scream that tears from me is damn near unrecognizable as I wrench my hands free of the zip ties, a few layers of skin tearing as I do. The electrical cable he used to tie me to this chair holds strong around my middle, but the brutal sounds coming from downstairs tell me there’s no time to find something to cut the thickly covered copper digging into my ribs, so I lurch awkwardly to my feet and spin so my front is facing the bed.
Pulling in as much air as the position allows, I run backward with all the speed I can manage, slamming the cheap wood into the wall. A guttural shout rips from my throat as my shoulder crunches against the wall, but I do it again.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “Come on, come on, come on …”
Wood splinters pierce my bare back, digging into the fresh welts there and tearing open half-healed ones. I do it again. And again, my back teeth at risk of cracking from clenching them so hard.
I gasp, my entire body shaking with rage, as the screams from the first floor grow even louder.
Warm liquid trickles down the entire right side of my body now, and my chest heaves, but I don’t stop. I draw on as much adrenaline as I can, and with one last crash, the back bars of the chair split, snapping from the base and left arm enough for me to wiggle my body and crawl out of the restraints.
“You want to cry?!” he screams. “I’ll shut you up!”
“No!” she weeps.
My heart pounds wildly as I run toward the voices, the cuts on the bottom of my feet tearing open more and more with every step, but I don’t care. I can hardly feel the pain anymore.
I can hardly feel anything. A new, darker form of rage bleeds into my bones, numbing me from the inside out.
“Get back here, you little bitch!” he demands, the front door slamming against the hinge.
“Fuck!” I hurry down the stairs.
She ran outside.
We never run outside when he’s like this—or after—but then again, it’s never lasted this long before.
My stomach leaps into my throat as the living room comes into view.
The broken glass littering the floor mocks me, the bloodstains on the shitty shag carpet a constant reminder, as if I fucking need one, of what he’s capable of doing to her, to me.
My mother hugs the now broken frame of the door, cowering against it, and the moment she hears me coming, she attempts to keep me from stepping through, but I shove her away, breaking free when her hand darts out, attempting to latch on to my wrist.
Horror slams into me, and I jerk to a stop on the porch.
My sister’s face is even more swollen now, blood seeping from the side of her head where he pistol-whipped her before tying me up, the bullet meant for her still buried in my flesh. She struggles to keep her eyes open, her body growing limp at our father’s side as he drags her back toward the house by the hair.
I have to get to her.
I have to free her.
I will save her.
He spots me and comes to a halt, eyes flicking over my shoulder.
And then my mother’s body is crashing into me from behind, knocking me unsteady. She’s hysterical, afraid for the man she loves more than her children and stumbles. With a slight nudge of my elbow, she tumbles into the dirt, scrambling back and hiding behind a flowerpot when my father pulls the trigger of the gun gripped in his left hand. The harsh “pap” rattles in the trees, the bullet burying itself into the dirt near his feet.
“Son, stop this right now! You’re bleeding everywhere! Get back inside before someone sees!” she cries, begging, yet again, for us, the victims, to “be good” and take the fucking whipping we “deserve.”
Of course I’m fucking bleeding. I came home to chaos, saw a gun pointed at my sister’s head, and with the look of acceptance in her eyes, I jumped in front of her just before he pulled the trigger.