Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Anyway, the Serpents’ club was born just to antagonize the Heathens. It’s pretty recent—since Cy and I enrolled in college last year. Bro rejected all the Ivy League colleges in America just to be a pain in my ass. But I get it, really.
I don’t trust myself half of the time, so it’s a good call that he’s here with me. If he wasn’t, I’d already be worm food.
In short, this club is my personal stage for mischief and endless shenanigans. Partying, fucking, sneaking guys into my room, and bribing the staff so nothing gets back to my dad.
Let’s say he didn’t react well the first time he caught me with a guy. Almost killed me, actually.
He promised to “end the life he gave me” in the most painful way possible the next time I put my dick somewhere “unnatural.” So, yeah, I’m not in the mood to die yet, so I’ll be keeping the gay tendencies under wraps until further notice.
I still love the freedom of being so far from home. My dad can’t touch me or backhand me or kick me until I pass out.
Yes, it’s temporary, but it’s better than nothing.
Cy said I can’t trust any member in the Serpents’ club, especially not with my semi-secret sexual orientation, or they’ll use it to put a target on my back. Semi because Cy, Danil, and Mariana—my chief guards—know.
All the guys I’ve fucked know, too, but they’re not part of this world, so they don’t really matter.
I hope.
Seriously, can I not get killed at twenty for literally just fucking around? Please and thank you.
Cy has the mansion under control—handpicked staff and guards whose heads he probably holds shit over—but the other members aren’t as solid.
They’re potential spies.
And because of that, I make their lives as uncomfortable as possible. That’s expected of me anyway, so why the hell not?
“Shh. Don’t listen to his nonsense, Zver. I’ll miss you so much.” I pat the remnants of my baby that are holed up in the back of a van. I’ve kept it in the garage since the brutal murder a few days ago, but Cy insisted on getting rid of the “scraps of metal.”
He got punched for calling Zveroushka mere scraps of metal.
“This is absolute nonsense,” he continues nagging to my right, like an annoying fly. “You should be focused on other important matters.”
“Don’t blaspheme. Nothing is as important as the death of my baby.”
“How about the one who caused the death of said ‘baby’?”
I shake my head, feigning sadness. “I even sacrificed my Zveroushka, and he’s still running away. Isn’t it sad?”
“It should be enraging, not sad.” Cy lowers his voice so only I can hear. “Someone breached our security and managed to blow up your ride—”
“My baby.”
“Fine. Your baby. You could’ve gotten killed. Why the fuck are you being so nonchalant about this?”
“Because I wasn’t going to get killed.” I tilt my head to the side, recalling the text I received from Vaughn right after the tragic death of Zver. “He didn’t want to kill me. He only wanted to punish me for messing with his toy. A toy for a toy, see what I did there?”
“And then what? Did your grand plan produce anything yet?”
“Don’t be impatient, Cy.”
“You said he’d be taking the next plane to the island that day.” He searches his surroundings. “I don’t see him anywhere, do you?”
I roll my eyes, then wave at the staff, who are driving the love of my life to her grave. The others scatter, getting ready for the party I decided to throw tomorrow on a whim.
The grounds of the mansion are massive, and with the typical cloudy sky, it looks like it’s cut from the Gothic era.
The place has too many windows whose glass has been bulletproofed to eliminate any security hazards. Spires like it’s trying to stab the sky, wrought-iron gates that creak even when they’re closed, and enough stone gargoyles to start a cult. The walls are a moody gray that always looks wet, like the place is permanently mourning someone—probably my Zver.
She went too early.
Cy follows me as I walk inside. We’re instantly surrounded by high ceilings, echoey halls, chandeliers that cost more than my soul, and rugs so thick, they could smother a man. The mansion smells like waxed wood, old money, and control.
There’s a panic room in the east wing. My father had it built for “emergencies.” I use it to store liquor, questionable tools, and a punching bag with his face drawn on it in Sharpie. Feels poetic, no?
Cy grabs my elbow and pulls me with him to a quiet corner out of the hustle and bustle of the staff preparing the grand hall for the party.
He’s a bit shorter than me, so it should make the judgmental look in his eyes comical at best. But no, he looks serious.