Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
He cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Standing in that snow, you’re just sorry about all kinds of things, aren’t you. Bummer. Well, I hope your night gets better.”
As she turned away, he said, “You’re right about me being angry. And how dangerous it is. I just don’t want you to get rolled into… all my shit.”
He kept quiet about what he and his boys were up to—and the fact that he had to was a reminder of how he was doing the proper thing with her. Even if it fucking sucked.
Bitty pivoted back around, and it was funny. He hadn’t realized exactly how warmly she’d looked at him until now… when all that was gone.
“You don’t owe me any explanations.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “We almost kissed—once. I’m very sure you’ve done much more than that with a lot of females, so I’m not confused about where I stand with you—or rather, if I once was, you cleared that up. For this, I’m grateful. I really think clarity is good in life, don’t you?”
The hardness in her was something he’d never seen before, and he blamed himself for changing her.
Yet another reason this was the right thing to do.
“Goodbye, Bitty.”
She stared at him for a moment. Then she bowed to him. “Goodbye, Your Highness.”
* * *
Out in the city park by the Hudson, Whestmorel dragged himself through the snow in a lurching walk. The lifting of his feet and the shifting of his weight made his heart pound from effort, and the pain in his chest flared and receded with each slow step.
From time to time, he glanced around with trepidation.
He hadn’t thought to bring a weapon. And in any event, he wasn’t trained in them.
He wielded pens, not swords.
Yet no slayers set upon him. It was quite curious, actually. With the evil having repudiated him, one would think Lash would have eliminated that which had been rejected, either there on the spot while they’d met or the now, by sending slayers forth.
Yet he remained alone in the field.
The extent of his isolation seemed rather relative, given that there were cars on the Northway, and people living all around the downtown, but as he considered his circumstances, he felt as though he was in Antarctica. If only he could dematerialize, but his heart was not functioning right—
Up ahead, a car pulled over to the shoulder of the four-lane road that ran past the park’s outer rim. As a figure stood up from behind the wheel—and waved—Whestmorel exhaled with a relief that he was going to need to keep to himself.
Lifting his hand in return, he tried to speed up, but his body just wouldn’t allow it. Thus he continued his trudging.
Certain now of his evacuation, his mind was free to rehash the meeting. In the flesh, Lash had not disappointed. He had been fair and quite beauteous, the kind of male who would have turned many a head, and one had to approve of the accent. He had been taught to speak properly, and with good diction, clearly by members of the glymera.
Did that make the tales true, Whestmorel wondered. Had the evil once been one of them, raised among aristocrats?
Whom he had later gone back and slaughtered, the start of the raids that horrible night so long ago.
When the great Blind King had once again failed the species.
Except Whestmorel was confused. Surely one as powerful as the Omega’s son would have seen not only the logic, but the opportunity, that had been presented to him. Instead, Lash had walked away.
Not the outcome one had wanted or anticipated.
Focusing on his car, Whestmorel continued to battle through the drifts—and the fact that Conrahd stayed with the sedan was irksome. But the male was not a butler, and in any event, what could be done to shorten the distance?
Still, as Whestmorel finally got within range, he gave into his dissatisfaction with everything and snapped, “Do come help me!”
Conrahd strode around the front grille, but hesitated at the nearly waist-high snowbank that curbed the thoroughfare. “You’re almost to it. Nearly here. Allow me to get the door.”
Well, wasn’t he accommodating, Whestmorel thought bitterly.
The last ten feet felt like ten miles, and then mounting what had been plowed and frozen into place was the kind of obstacle course that tried the last of his patience. When he finally fell into the bucket seat on the passenger side, he closed his eyes and felt a sickening dizziness.
Conrahd did the duty with shutting him in, at least—what a male—and then came around and got behind the wheel.
“Rather good timing,” the male muttered as he put them in gear and started off. “A cop-bot is approaching us.”
Just what they needed.
Fumbling with the seatbelt, Whestmorel buckled himself in, and looked out the back. Indeed, a CPD unit was on their tail, and stayed that way as they took the nearest northbound ramp onto the highway. As the municipal vehicle eventually pared off, there was a spot of relief, but then the queasiness started.