Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Better than the beard you sported last year,” Damen shoots back.
Corvus’s smooth-shaven face reddens, his lips open, and Aspen lets out a low hiss, biting his fist, as if in an effort to stop himself from saying something that can’t be taken back.
“Did he have a beard last year?” one of the other men whispers and opens his phone, likely looking for proof in his photo gallery.
Corvus inhales in exasperation, and the cigarette in his hand snaps, falling to the marble floor. He steps on it with more anger than the situation’s worth. “You need to get your memory checked out. Maybe it’s early-onset dementia.”
I don’t know if my gaydar is tingling or if it’s Damen who planted the idea in my head now, but I swear I’m getting vibes. Does Damen know this about Corvus for sure? Wouldn’t he have told me there’s a closet case in the family?
I stand on my toes and kiss Damen’s cheek. If I can’t go feral and bitchy, I’m gonna kill them with a whole new level of passive-aggression. “Impossible. He remembers every birthday and anniversary.”
As Corvus cuts me to shreds with his glare, the cousin with the phone pipes up. “Found it! Yeah… no… no beard.”
Aspen starts choking on a laugh he’s trying to obscure so hard his shades fall halfway down his nose. “Not that kind of beard,” he whispers to the other guy (his older brother?).
“Oh but he’s not…” the brother whispers back so loudly everyone can hear it anyway. “He literally brought a girlfriend last Christmas.”
Ball in your court, Corvus. Check-mate.
At least the eyes of death slide off me, instead attacking Aspen and his uninteresting sibling. “Careful with your next words. Daddy’s not here to protect you from consequences.”
Aspen stills, looking like a cartoon character frozen mid-move in his ridiculous getup. I half expect him to say something even more offensive, but he rolls back onto the sofa and picks up a bottle of coke.
A dense silence settles over the hall as the other men watch Damen and Corvus stare each other down like two stags about to lock antlers in a fight to the death.
My stomach twists with a painful cramp just before Damen presses a kiss to my head. “Now you know. Here is my husband. I expect you all to treat him with the respect due to my spouse.” His voice hangs in the air, a hook waiting for the least cautious fish in this marble pond, but when no one bites, he tells everyone we’ll see them later at ‘the knife throwing’ (?!) and leads me past the men, to the space where the butler earlier stashed our coats.
I pull on my new winter boots, giving Damen an anxious glance. “Did that go well? I think it went well? Do they hate me? Should I expect a knife to the throat?” I laugh, but it’s not funny.
Damen shrugs and wraps a scarf around my neck. “They’ll get over themselves. Don’t worry, you did very well.”
I’m not sure how much faith I should have in my man’s cousins, but I choose not to argue, and we head out into the white landscape outside.
It’s a sunny day, and underneath the clear blue sky, the piles of snow shine like they’re made of gold thread.
As we close in on the maze, a woman’s voice keeps echoing in the air along with the screeching of small children, and I get the sense that Damen’s trying to wait her out. In the end though, he must have decided it’s not worth the hassle, and takes me past a thatch of trees, where a group of people stands close to the evergreen gate into the maze.
Damen’s sister, Alexandra, stands tall like a statue of corporate motherhood in her long coat, pristine boots and with a cell phone in hand. She’s even got the right kind of bob to complete the look as she yells at someone on the other side of the line.
The man next to her must be her husband, Victor. He’s got the thick-rimmed glasses I remember from a photo, and a patient smile for their young son, who is crying his eyes out. It takes me several moments to understand that he’s complaining about one of his three sisters pushing him over into the snow.
Despite the blond curls cascading from under their matching pink hats, the girls seem more like devils than angels. They run around, throw snowballs at each other, and are the picture of unadulterated joy. As soon as they spot Damen, they all screech like banshees, and even their brother looks up with a sniff.
“Uncle Damen!” The girls yell and run at my man as if to tackle him. I worry they might succeed if they bash into him all at once.
He lets go of me and scoots down in time for the kids to clash with him. A second later, he’s sprawled in the snow, and they’re swarming him like piranhas out for his blood.