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)
While I don’t give a fuck about them, I do give a whole lot of fucks that Vaughn joins his friends when an initiation happens.
However, the reason why I’m bubbling with excitement isn’t only because he’ll be there tonight.
No, it’s more due to the very logical conclusion I came to following a recent conversation.
My law professor, Kayden Lockwood. Just kidding, he’s Kayden Davenport—an important business associate of my dad’s and one of the reasons Yaroslav is so feared in the mafia world. Being friends with the Davenports is a fast track way to have power, influence, and carte blanche to kill.
Now, I’m not sure why Kayden came all the way from the States, abandoning his Davenport empire just to play law professor, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s not the important part.
It’s that Kayden said I was drugged that night.
Yup—the night I had a dream about Vaughn’s lips and hard chest pressing and rubbing against mine was the night my drink was roofied.
Maybe that was the reason the dream was so realistic, but you know what? Kayden said he dragged me to my room and saved me, but did he really? Because I swear there was someone other than Kayden in the room with me.
If there’s even the slightest chance it was Vaughn, I might roll off a cliff on my new bike in celebration.
Sure, I’m delusional—he was across the pond and all that—but I’ll stick with the fantasy, thank you very much.
I focus on the now. I’m walking through the forest where the Heathens’ initiation takes place.
Mist curls low around my shoes, the ground damp and eager to stain, and the trees are lined up like comical soldiers, all stiff and whispering secrets to each other.
Typical British weather has graced us once again today—cloudy, gray, and dramatic as hell. Seriously, why does the sky look like it wants to pour its guts out but keeps holding on?
For suspense, I think.
Honestly, the sky and that little shit Vaughn have too much in common.
I wonder if he loves the humble gift I left in his inbox today.
My lips stretch behind the stupid white bunny mask as the wind cuts through my jacket, carrying the scent of pine, old stone, and something darker.
Smoke.
No, sin.
Because fuck me, I’ve been wound up and vibrating with excitement since I got that invitation. No clue who sent it, but I’m so fucking stoked at the idea buzzing in my head.
I brush past a low branch, snag it on my shirt, and keep walking, whistling softly. A frightened scream echoes in the air somewhere ahead, possibly someone who was caught by the Heathens’ chasing games.
The whole atmosphere is fucking intoxicating, and truly, I’d be all over this shit under different circumstances. Chasing, blood, and frightened lambs?
Where do I sign up?
Not today, though, because I’m looking for someone.
I saw Vaughn on that balcony with the four others. He had a white neon stitch mask on, and yes, they all had masks on, so, in reality, I shouldn’t have been able to differentiate him, but then again, he’s so distinctive, even behind a facade.
Nikolai was the biggest and the loudest, so I could tell he was the one with the yellow mask from a mile away.
Jeremy stood in the middle with a club on his shoulder, so the orange mask was obvious.
Killian and Gareth have similar builds, and they held a baseball bat and an archery bow respectively, two weapons Vaughn wouldn’t go near. Call it a hunch, but he’d want more control with his weapon of choice, so a gun would be his go-to, but since that’s not allowed, he had something very Vaughn, so to speak—a thick chain that’s wrapped around his neck like a serpent.
I grin wider when I catch a glimpse of him dragging a guy on the ground, his upper body bulging with exertion, his biceps flexing, the tendons almost visible through the gloves he’s wearing.
And yes, I’m close enough, kind of floating between bushes to get near. I’m the definition of a moth flying toward the flame, my wings flapping about against the window, so fucking desperate to be let in.
Or maybe I’m a junkie who’s so close to getting his first hit in weeks.
Months.
No—years. Four, to be exact.
A voice over the speaker declares the number scrawled across the eliminated guy’s mask. I quicken my pace, using the sound to get as close as possible without Vaughn noticing.
A bit more, just near enough to breathe him in—
He lifts his head, his eyes shooting lasers in my direction.
It’s getting dark, and even though I can’t see his eyes clearly, I can see something else.
Tension crowds his shoulders, and he tightens his grip on the chain. His spine snaps upright, and he stands taller, his shoulders squared.
Not only does he recognize me, but I also unsettle him.