Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I grab my smokes and step onto the balcony.
The view drops away, the whole compound laid out beneath me.
When we flew in, they blindfolded me. Protocol. But I can picture the route, how long the helicopter banked, how the air changed, how my ears popped with altitude and distance. We’re deep in the rainforest. No roads, no civilization, no walking out alive.
Remote doesn’t scare me. Isolation and I have history. We’ve had long talks.
This place feels as off-the-map as Hoss.
Instead of freaking out about that, I find comfort in it.
Down below, men in black move with purpose, crossing paths, turning corners, rifles carried at ease, not brandished.
I light up and lean on the rail, smoke curling into the damp air.
The thing I don’t expect is how not lonely this place feels. There’s noise under the quiet, footsteps on marble, laughter around every corner, and camaraderie everywhere. The walls pulse with life.
And the inner circle? I grin to myself. They’re a pack of emotionally-damaged cupcakes with hidden knives and murderous tendencies.
I take a drag and let myself think the thought all the way through. I like them. All the ones I’ve met so far. I like that I can joke about my childhood trauma and no one flinches, rushes to smooth it over, or asks if I’m okay. I say uncomfortable shit, and they nod like, Yeah, been there. Done that.
For me, that’s home.
I follow the balcony around the corner and stare out over the citrus grove below, the trees heavy with green and gold. A clearing opens at the center, and there they are.
Jag and Dove sit on a bench, their heads tipped together, in their own little world. Jag grips her hands and says something that makes her spring to her feet.
Uh oh.
She starts pacing, fingers yanking at her braids, voice climbing, arms cutting the air. I don’t catch every word, just the loudest ones.
“He wore a fucking bomb?” Her eyes snap up.
Straight to me.
That’s my cue to back away. So naturally, I step forward and curtsy.
I don’t need 20/20 vision to see the look she spears me. I feel it grab me by the balls.
Jag slides along the bench and pulls her down to his lap. He cups her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. She’s crying too hard for a kiss, so he captures her nape and brings their foreheads together.
“You would make a terrible spy,” says a gravelly male voice behind me.
I spin and come face-to-face with Van Quiso.
Impossible to mistake him with that toothpick parked between his lips. Or the scar cutting from his eye to his mouth, wrecking the symmetry of his face and somehow sharpening everything else.
When I saw him in the nightclub, I didn’t know who he was.
Now that I’ve memorized his dossier, I understand exactly why his presence makes my blood run cold.
Hands clasped behind him and boots braced apart, he radiates a dominant posture, one that says he owns this view, this moment, maybe the whole damned kingdom.
Legacy King of The Freedom Fighters.
Former human sex trafficker.
His nine victims now stand shoulder to shoulder with him in the inner circle.
And I am wildly, inappropriately gobsmacked. Not in an approval way. In a staring-at-a-volcano way. I don’t want to go near him. I also don’t want to look away.
“Hi.” I crush out the cigarette. “Do you prefer a high-five, a bent knee, or should I just scream and throw myself off the balcony?”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “You’re different.”
“Never heard that before.”
“We like different around here.” He flicks the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other as his gaze sweeps over my shirtless, scarred chest. “You’ll fit in just fine.”
“Cool.” I glance past him, then back. “How did you get in here?”
“I wanted to see if Jag hacked the security and changed the locks yet.” He crosses muscled arms. “He hasn’t.”
“Jag’s been busy.”
His gaze drifts over my shoulder, and I follow it to the clearing where Jag holds Dove on his lap.
I step into Van’s line of sight, blocking it.
He hums quietly, thoughtful.
“I stopped by for two reasons.” He removes the toothpick, spins it between his fingers, and returns it to his mouth. “First, I want a tattoo.”
My brain short-circuits.
A tattoo.
On Van Quiso.
Of all the things I expected to come out of his mouth, that wasn’t even on the list. The idea of putting my needles anywhere near that scarred, people-eating myth of a man sends a wicked thrill through me.
“Yeah.” I play it cool. “My schedule’s pretty packed.”
“Everyone’s talking. People lining up, figuring out what they want from the resident artist.”
Resident artist?
Love that for me.
He steps closer, making sure I’m aware of him in a very biological way. “You’ll do me first.”
“Actually, Frizz is first.”
He glares at me with silver eyes that don’t hurry. The pause stretches long enough for my guts to reconsider all my life choices.