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)
“So…what shall it be?” he questions and walks over toward Kylie to just barely touch the ends of her brown hair. “Everyone…or no one?”
I scrub a hand down my face, desperate to figure a way out of this mess, but there is no way out. Our hands are fucking tied. Our body count stacked too high. All our transgressions against the elite point straight to a death sentence.
I don’t trust Lucian, but I don’t doubt he’s a man of his word when it comes to consequences, I think in my mind, hoping to hell Rook can use his telepathy to tap into me.
I have no idea if Lucian is a shield, but I’d prefer to have this conversation without scaring Kylie and Blair even more than they already are.
I want to murder this fucking fuck, Rook pushes into my head.
Yeah, well, clearly, we’re out-fucking-matched, I think.
Kane says his offer isn’t saying death…at least…not yet, Rook pushes into my head.
Kane’s not wrong. Going along with Lucian might be the only chance we have to survive, I answer back. We gotta do this, man. I fucking hate it, but it’s all we’ve got right now.
“Looks like the Slaters are headed to New York,” Rook growls.
“Beautiful.” Lucian smiles. “If I may make a suggestion?”
We all just stare at him.
“Pack your finest. We have many exciting events to attend.”
Romy
Butter-yellow silk skims my legs as I walk into the massive ballroom of the mansion set somewhere outside of New York City, a glass of wine in hand and a sour feeling in my stomach that’s kept me from eating all day.
This morning, after I found four new gowns my mother approved of in Neiman Marcus and stopped home to pack them safely in a garment bag, my father drove me to the airport and escorted me all the way to the gate—somehow—to make sure I got on the plane.
We didn’t speak much, but truly, we didn’t need to. His decision to send me off to be sold and my sense of betrayal as a result are like two ends of the same wooden board—connected forever, but in no way will they ever meet in the middle without chopping everything up into a million tiny pieces.
Trust me, we’ve already argued; there’s no changing this.
Upon arrival at Newark, New Jersey’s airport, I was escorted right off the plane into a waiting Porsche on the tarmac by two men in black suits and put in the back seat without so much as a hey, how ya doing?
The windows were tinted in both directions, making it nearly impossible to see outside as we drove at an incredibly fast speed out of the airport and up into some suburb of New York I’m imagining to be Westchester.
The truth, though, is that besides the luscious green grounds and intimidating gray stone of the biggest mansion I’ve ever seen, I haven’t a clue about where they’ve brought me.
Where they’ve brought all of us.
Women of a distinct age group—mine—mingle and mill about the large space, drinking fancy cocktails and whispering to one another in excited flutters of curiosity and intrigue. There are no men in the room as of yet, other than the gruff-looking security guards at the doors, which is at least a small comfort, but the energy feels off, nonetheless.
Despite a wide array of colorful gowns and ethnicities, the group of women still manages to feel similar. The perfectly crafted makeup, the attempt at wealth on an array of budgets—the sexual nature of their appearance in every way.
We’re products here, not people. And our families sent us willingly.
My breath comes out in a shaky huff as I set down my now-empty glass on a passing tray and force myself to move deeper into the room. I don’t want to participate, but I do want to blend in, and loitering at the door in abject horror is exactly the opposite of what everyone else seems to be doing.
I reach for my phone in my purse to find distraction and only remember that they took it, along with my luggage, when I arrived at the airport and conveniently forgot to give it back, when I come up empty-handed.
My bags were in my room before I was, but my phone is long gone. Probably at the bottom of a bucket of blood or whatever the fuck vampires get a kick out of.
I have a feeling that’s by design, not coincidence.
“Hi,” I’m surprised to hear from my left, spinning me around in a whirl. The young blond woman smiles and shrugs. “I’m Abigail. What’s your name?”
“Romy,” I answer, trying not to take the level of unease I’m feeling about becoming a vampire’s plaything out on her and succeeding partially. I’m not sure what my face is doing, but if she asks, I’ll blame it on RBF.