Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Rook curses, his jaw so hard I could break glass on it.
“Trust me, whatever vile picture you have of them in your heads, they’re a hundred times worse.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “But they’ll pay for it. I promise. Every single sick bastard here will pay.”
Instantly, Romy’s face fills my mind, and everything inside me wants to rage over the mere idea of one of these vile fucks trying to claim her.
I will straight up murder before that happens.
“What exactly are you going to do?” Kane inquires, the taut line of my every muscle unmistakable.
“Where are you going?” Rook asks when the only response I have for Kane is to get up and head for the door.
“As much as I’ve missed you guys, I don’t think we’re going to dismantle the Elite Council with me hanging out here. I’m going to do my job. You guys do yours.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.” Kane salutes and Rook smiles.
It might not seem like it on the surface, but it’s the most reassuring response I’ve ever gotten.
If the Slater brothers have anything to say about it, by tomorrow night, this whole fucking place will be up in flames.
And Romy will walk away alive.
Romy
Leaving the relative comfort of my room for a second night of drinks and mingling has my stomach in knots I didn’t even know were possible.
Overhand, bowline, square—they have nothing on this shit, and trust me, I know my fucking knots. My dad is a boatsman. At least, that’s what he loves to call himself.
Every summer, he’d take my mom and me over to Provincetown, Cape Cod, to stay for a week and then sail his boat down to Martha’s Vineyard. I wish I could say it was a fond memory that makes sending me to this shit feel like it’s really out of character—but my dad has always been the same.
Quiet. Authoritative. Selfishly driven and spineless when it counts.
Pressing a palm against the soft burgundy fabric of tonight’s velvet dress, I turn to the side to take the steps down the staircase with care. My heels are precariously tall—by my mother’s decree—and my legs shake like they belong to a newborn colt.
Tonight, we won’t just be with the women. Tonight, the vampires will be joining us—and not just the one who kissed me last night. All of them.
I imagine they’ll be testing us in some way. Seeing how moldable our will is and how easily we break. I wish like hell I knew if it would be safer to be accommodating or to press—but I fear the real answer is that there is no safety net here.
One way or another, at the end of the process, you leave with a vampire.
“Hey, Romy,” Hillary greets, meeting up with me about halfway down the staircase. Her heels are a much more manageable three inches to my six, and I wish a little harder that I’d fought my mother on the shoe issue.
“Hey, Hillary.” I force a smile, even though everything feels painfully off.
Though, she looks good. Gorgeous, even. A blue chiffon gown makes her eyes seem twice as big and bright as normal. Her lips are painted a coral pink, and her skin shimmers like she’s used some sort of body balm.
I, on the other hand, am wearing minimal makeup and considered not showering, just to make myself a little less appealing.
The effort to put myself together is the very lowest I’ve made all day, because during the rest of the time, I’ve been a girl on a mission to burst some naïve bubbles.
This morning, after a quick workout and conversation with the girls I already knew during our fitness time, I encouraged both Hillary and Abigail to gather a larger group to sit with us for lunch. They did—Abigail has been quite the social butterfly since arriving and knows nearly everyone—but it didn’t do me much good, seeing as I couldn’t get a word in edgewise around the palpable excitement over tonight.
How handsome they would be. The things they might say. The thrill of a new crush and then being chosen by him tomorrow.
They had a dozen positive twists on something I see as the worst experience of my life, and while that hindered my progress, it also made me sad.
Sad for them. Sad for the letdown when the truth is far less pretty.
Determined to make headway, I regrouped and focused on the afternoon spa event for planting my seeds, and because of how weird it was on a basic level, I was fairly successful.
Women who showed up expecting massages and facials were met with IVs and blood-filtering machines instead. It was very Dr. Frankenstein-esque, and I could tell by the looks on several of their faces, they were wondering what the hell they’d gotten themselves into.
I can see now, though, that the time back in their rooms and the exercise of getting ready for a party tonight has renewed some of their positive energy, and it’s my job now to find a way to squash it without being so much of a buzzkill they all stop talking to me.