Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“That hurts, ye know. I thought we were having fun these last couple of years, avenging Caysie and shit.”
I keep looking at the blood—Gareth’s blood—and a headache forms at the back of my skull, snapping to the front with dizzying speed.
Declan is right, we were.
Truth is, Declan really cared about his sister, and he was there when we hunted each of the motherfuckers who raped and killed my wife.
Every single one who was present in that house.
All except for one.
“If there’s a point behind your call, you should reach it now, Declan.” I put him on speaker and shoot Jethro a text.
Me
Track Gareth.
Jethro
First, take a look at this. We have a problem. A big problem.
He’s still typing as Declan speaks. “Heard you found our last name, Davenport, but you somehow hid him from me? I’m so wounded, I could cry.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Alexander Carson’s grandson isn’t yours to keep.” His voice darkens. “His blood is fucking mine.”
My whole body snaps upright, my throat closing with rage. “Don’t you touch a hair on his head or I will—”
“You’ll what? Kill me? Find me first. Caysie would be rolling in her grave that yer protecting the grandson of her rapist.”
“Gareth is not Alexander.”
“No, he’s not, but he’s the one person Alexander loves the most, even more than his own son. He loves him so much, he’s been depressed since he left the States for school. Ye must’ve noticed that, too, which is why ye pulled this. It’s pointless to kill Alexander when we could torture the old man first. I wonder if he’ll have a heart attack if I send him his grandson’s fingers one by one before I ship him the corpse in a box.”
“I will kill you, Declan. You touch him, and I will fucking kill you.” I’m breathing so loud, I’m panting.
“And I will kill you if you interfere.”
The line goes dead.
An emotion I’ve never felt before courses through my veins. It’s so strong and overwhelming, my entire body tightens.
Fear, I realize.
I’m scared I’ll never see Gareth again.
I’m terrified he’ll be hurt because of me.
I’m shaking at the thought that his peaceful face this morning might have been the last time I saw him, or that the kiss I pressed to his forehead as he sighed in his sleep was the last time I touched him.My eyes fly over the texts Jethro sent. Screenshots of further texts Gareth received after the wedding video.
From Declan, no doubt.
They look happy, right? That’s because they were. Kayden and Cassandra Davenport. The envy-worthy couple.
That’s his real last name, by the way. Kayden Davenport. And he’s no college professor. Yeah, he studied law, but he never practiced. He’s actually one of the two heirs of Davenport Corp., the largest imports and exports corporation in the States.
Caysie and Kayden had a happy marriage until the senator they were dealing with wanted her. Senator Baltimore, have you heard of him? Anyway, he really tried his best to fuck her, and Caysie indulged his flirting, thinking she could keep a leash on him until the company signed the governmental contract. Then she dropped him after they had no use for him. He got mad, like all men with small dicks. Guess what happened next?
He invited her to a vacation house to discuss an upcoming project. He drugged and gang-raped her with his friends. They passed her around as if she was a fuck doll until she died. And then they dumped her in the river.
We wouldn’t have found her decomposed body if a maid hadn’t felt guilty and called Kayden two weeks later.
There was no evidence, so the justice system was useless. Kayden took it into his own hands to get her that justice.
Now, guess where you fit in this little tale, Gareth Carson?
For more information, let’s meet.
30
GARETH
The person who was texting me all that information about Kayden and his wife is a bulky bald man with a blond beard and bulging blue eyes.
An ugly dagger and roses tattoo slither from beneath the collar of his black shirt, up his neck and his bald head.
We’re in the location he gave me over the phone—near the beach, in front of a warehouse with a rusty roof and a door off its hinges.
The sea’s cold air seeps into my bones as I lean against Medusa, my blood slowly dripping onto the concrete. I wrapped my wounds in a bandage earlier, when I decided I’m not dying yet. Not until I hear the entire story.
But I still messed up Medusa’s interior with all my blood.
She seems to take the hit whenever I fuck myself up because of a certain fucking—
No.
I need to stay calm.
I can’t go through this if I’m not calm.
“Name’s Declan O’Connor,” he says in an Irish accent, toying with a toothpick between his teeth.
“Don’t give a fuck about your name.” My monotone voice sounds far away, as if I’m separated from my physical form and can only hear my words from underground.