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 wanted to find Lash and kill the fucker.
He was the goddamn son of the King, and his father’s death, which might as well have actually happened thirty years ago, was his to ahvenge, and no one else’s.
Even if that act of retribution was not for the reasons everyone assumed.
Oh, and as for him fucking off his ahstrux nohtrum? His force-fed roommate was annoying as hell, but that silver-tongued motherfucker could talk his way out of anything. So no, there was no way Shuli’s pink slip was going to include a coffin with his name on it, no matter how things had been done back in the Old Country.
That aristocrat was probably going to negotiate a raise to compensate himself for hazardous duty in the process.
With a groan, L.W. lay back. His spine and the muscles that were locked on it were so stiff, there was no easing onto the Persian rug. He was like the logs the butler had stacked, rigid, unbending, even though his physical pain had gotten worse with this horizontal shit rather than better.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the crackle of the logs, inhaled the fire’s mellow fragrance, and tried to ignore all the aches.
Just as he fell asleep, his brain coughed up a correction.
It wasn’t true that he didn’t want to talk to anybody.
There was one person he wouldn’t have minded speaking to right now. But she really should stay off-limits. If he thought his life was heading in a bad direction right now? It was nothing compared to what would happen if he kept seeing Bitty.
Rhage’s daughter was irresistible to him, and he knew the feeling was at some level reciprocated.
Which meant she was in the path of disaster unless she came to her senses.
Good thing her mother was a therapist.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As Lyric re-formed on her grandparents’ covered back porch, it seemed like the first time all night that she was not stepping through, standing on, or slipping over snow in her Lou-stupidns. Of course, the stillies were still ruined, her feet were solid blocks of ice, and her ankles and calves were so stiff, they could have qualified as stakes.
But who was counting at this point, especially as she had so much other stuff on her mind.
With a fit of paranoia, she tried to conjure up her human savior’s face—and was relieved to a point when she remembered he had dark hair and had been in a hoodie and a parka.
“What color were his eyes?” she blurted.
He was forgettable by design? Was that what he’d said? Yeah, well, the problem was her, not him, and she needed to pull herself together.
Taking a deep breath, she exhaled and watched the cloud drift off.
This house that she had always loved coming to so much was located on some nice rural acreage, and the pond in the rear yard was one of her absolute favorite places in the world. Over the course of her life, the trees had all grown up and filled in, creating a sanctuary feel inside the fence line, and about five years ago, her grandfather had added a screened-in gazebo by the water. Eight-sided and topped with a red tin roof, the thing was a cheerful teapot without a spout—and her eyes misted with tears as she remembered him building it board by board, nail by nail.
It had been an anniversary present for the shellan he adored so much. And in the summertime, on Sunday nights before dawn, Lyric and her granmahmen had liked to go out there after the family Last Meal and have a listen to the whippoorwills and the crickets and the tree frogs.
It was also good when there was a thunderstorm and they’d been feeling adventurous.
When those moments had been happening, Lyric had certainly enjoyed them, but she’d never considered that they were something rare and precious… because there would come a night when she would be out there alone.
Bringing Dev’s coat in closer, she stared across the snowdrifts at the gazebo, and as her eyes filled with tears, she had to look elsewhere. How beautiful the winter landscape was, so bright and gleaming, the moonlight filtering through the ribbons of clouds to drape the snowcapped pines and hemlocks in shades of blue, the frozen pond like a platinum plate.
There had been an evening back in early October, about three months ago, when the temperature had been unseasonably warm. The family had gone out there with baskets full of food and all the plates and silverware and drinks. Granmahmen had cooked, of course, and whatever had been served had been delicious…
Why couldn’t she remember what they’d had?
And come to think of it, she couldn’t recall what they’d talked about, either. There was also no memory of what she’d been wearing, or what anybody else had had on. No sweaters or fleeces, that was for sure, because of the eerily tender temperature.