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 let the bag drag along on the thick white carpet.
The second floor had all kinds of bedroom suites opening off both sides of the white-on-white-on-white hallway. The primary suite was all the way down at the end, and as he continued to haul his sorry ass and the bag along, he wondered: (1) why he didn’t live in a smaller house; and (2) why he didn’t take advantage of any of the other cribs.
It was like when you hit a tennis ball off the rim of your racket. You paid for that part, even if it wasn’t the sweet spot in the middle.
Or something like that.
“What was the question,” he mumbled.
In a stunning optical illusion—one that echoed the shit with the snowy walkway—the corridor seemed to get longer the farther he went. It also felt like he was getting shorter, for some reason.
When he finally got to his door, he went to open it with his mind. Failed. Had to do things the old-fashioned way and turn the knob.
His inner sanctum of white-on-white-on-white reminded him of a cloud, and when he’d hit the blanco so hard with the decorator, he’d told himself it was to set off the Rothkos he was collecting. Give them a backdrop to really show off on.
As he kicked the heavy panel closed now… he just thought it showed a lack of commitment. Like he’d moved his things in, but he hadn’t moved himself in.
“Fine. Okay, that’s great.”
He left the duffle just inside the door, and congratulated himself for the stellar thinking that had made him take a shower before he’d left the clinic: He’d used the chair they provided and the grips on the wall, and that nozzle thingy.
So all he had to do was shuffle across to the king-sized bed and fall face-first onto the fluffy-as-Wonder-Bread duvet. As the thing puffed around him, pressing gently into his wounded body, he turned his head to the side, exhaled, and closed his eyes.
It was so quiet here. No beeping machines. No footsteps of people moving around the clinic. No hushed voices—
Knock.
“I’m good, Willhis.”
Knock-knock.
“I’m all good, Willhis!”
He heard the click of the door opening, and started wrenching around with a struggle. Though he wanted to curse, he held back. The doggen did not deserve to be on the receiving end of his frustration at the entire world.
Okay, the shit was mostly about Lyric. And that human—
Not the butler or another member of the staff.
L.W. stood there in the doorway, balanced on one crutch, still in those hospital scrubs. On his big body, it was like he was wearing a miniature set of them, his ankles showing, his tattooed lower abdomen, too. The shit was also super tight across his chest.
“What’s doing?” Shuli asked.
“Mind if I come in.”
Not exactly a question. But it sure as hell was closer to one than the guy usually got. “Yeah, sure.”
The heir to the throne closed the door and hesitated.
“Okay, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on.” Shuli tapped his temple. “ ’Cuz my mind’s going in a lot of bad places, the longer you stand there looking like you have bad news to drop and no idea how to start the fucking conversation.”
Although considering all the fun they’d been having together lately, what could possibly make shit worse. Yes, the Brotherhood had accepted the story that they’d run into lessers and chased them behind that apartment building, but the lie they’d taken up to protect Lyric wasn’t sitting well.
Even though, really, Shuli would have done anything for that female.
L.W. limped in farther, stopping to look at the Rothko above a bureau. “I’ve been thinking.”
“So that’s why I smelled wood burning all day long,” Shuli muttered.
The fighter glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve never understood that expression.”
“Me neither.” Shuli shoved himself backwards, until he could lean against his pillows. “Human vernacular is a playground of nonsense. We can discuss clams that are happy, being on cloud nine, and that whole over-the-moon thing later.”
When L.W. just started limping from painting to painting, Shuli exhaled the flare of pain that had come with the repositioning, and waited. He’d never seen the male so tense.
“Whatever it is,” he found himself saying, “we’ll handle it.”
He couldn’t believe the temerity of the statement. The son of the great Blind King didn’t need help from anybody when he had Wrath in his corner. But clearly this shit was private.
The kind of private that people picked and chose who they shared it with.
“I’ve been a real asshole lately.”
Shuli lifted his brows. “Lately? Try your whole life.”
L.W. glared across the room. “Not when I was a young. I was good then. I was… a good kid.”
Shuli inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I wouldn’t know. But I take it you do.”
That proud, regal head turned back to a yellow and orange canvas. “It wasn’t until I hit my transition that I… changed.”