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)
Warm. For the first time in my life, I feel warm everywhere.
The wind plucks long hair from her bejeweled clips, whipping the gilded strands into a glorious tangle. Her huge, pale eyes brim with fear and determination, locking onto the darkness ahead as if she’s chasing, or being chased by, something only she can see.
I stop in my tracks, utterly spellbound.
My first thought? She’s a runaway bride. My second? She’s the closest thing to a real Disney princess I’ve ever seen. My third? I have to follow her.
She moves fast, but I keep pace. My boots echo against the pavement as I trail behind her, curiosity pulling me forward. She doesn’t glance back once, doesn’t hesitate or falter. She’s on a mission.
On the next block, I realize where she’s leading me.
To the tattoo shop.
She throws open the door and vanishes inside. Cautiously, I follow, stepping over the threshold just in time to see her tearing through the place in a fury. She upends chairs, shoves aside furniture, her frantic hands searching, searching…
For what?
I don’t have to wonder for long.
She dives behind the sofa and pops back up, holding a damn rifle.
“The fuck?” I’ve worked here for six months and didn’t know that was there. “How did you find that?”
“I lived with the son of a bitch half my life.” Her breath comes hard and fast, her entire body coiled. “I know where he keeps his weapons.”
“I’m sorry. Who?”
“Me.” A man steps out from the back room.
I don’t know him. But I know of him.
Jag Rath.
The mysterious owner of the shop. The man I’ve only heard about in passing, a shadow daddy wrapped in urban legend.
He stands in the doorway, staring down the barrel of a rifle held by the princess in the wedding gown.
The guy is ridiculously good-looking in a cruel, rugged way. Makes me wonder if he’s always been jaded or if life whittled him into this hard, unbreakable marble.
His light brown hair is thick, textured, and perfectly unkempt. Stubble frames a strong jaw. And his jeans… Hell, his denim fits him just right. He’s broad, imposing, late thirties or early forties, and carries the aura of a man who has seen too much.
His gaze slides between the gun and the woman holding it. No fear. No surprise.
“Dove.” His timbre is deep and growly. Dangerous.
So that’s her name.
Dove.
It fits.
She doesn’t lower the gun. If anything, her grip tightens.
“I’ll kill you.” Breath shudders out of her, and her voice cuts like a blade.
She means it. Every syllable drips with conviction and something deeper than anger.
Betrayal.
Heartbreak.
Reminds me of Frankie the day she watched the video of her husband—my father—banging another woman.
I step forward before my brain catches up with my body.
“This is awkward.” I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “I usually prefer a little foreplay before the bleeding starts.”
She angles her head just enough for me to see the fury blazing in those syrupy, honey-colored eyes. But I also see the hurt buried beneath it. And now I really want to know what the hell is going on.
“You must be Wolfson.” Jag gives me a slow, violating perusal.
“Shut up, you fuck.” She shuffles closer to him. “Look at me!”
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” he drawls. “Poor little Dove.”
“I loved him!” she shouts, her voice breaking. Then, softer, quieter, almost to herself, “I loved him. Why did you have to fuck him?”
Oh.
Oh.
This just got interesting.
Jag’s expression doesn’t change. He closes the distance, ignoring the gun she still aims at his chest.
“Go back to California, Dove.” His tone is bored. “This isn’t your scene.”
“I have nothing to return to.” Her grip on the rifle trembles, her entire frame shaking. “You took him from me.”
“He’s a grown-ass man, capable of making his own choices.”
Her lip quivers, and for the first time, her finger falters on the trigger.
Whatever this is, it’s gutting her from the inside out.
“Look, I don’t know who he is.” I edge forward, prepared to disarm her. “But maybe shooting people isn’t the best way to work through this?”
Jag lets out a humorless laugh. “Stay out of this, kid.”
“Not a kid.” I scowl. “Just the poor bastard who stumbled in on your public therapy session. Feel free to keep unraveling, though. Especially if it leads to a public hate-fuck.”
Dove chokes. “We’re not—”
“I can be persuaded.” A mean smile tugs at Jag’s mouth. “Now that you’re single again…”
“Go to hell!” she shouts.
His features harden, and a beat of silence stretches between them, stiff and suffocating. I can’t decide if he wants to kick her out or rip off her gown.
“Stop looking at me like that.” She lifts the gun higher.
“Like this?” His gaze lowers down her body, giving her the same perusal he gave me.
“Stop,” she spits. “You’re my brother.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
Wait.
What?
“And I thought my family was fucked up.” I blink.