Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
So I aced the trial, left the men who went against me in worse shape than me, and finished before even Kane and Preston.
I have to check on them, see how they did, but for now, I’m just…so fucking tired.
As I stare at the horizon where the deep clouds meet the lake, I find solace in the small patch of orange that’s trying to slip through. Despite the rain, despite the gloominess, there’s that little smidge of brightness that just refuses to give in.
And it gives me hope that I’m the patch of orange for my mom. The reason she’ll hold on to life.
But then it’s snuffed.
The sliver of orange is suffocated by the dark clouds, murdering any sense of expectation.
The rain pours, soaking through my clothes, dripping down my lashes, filling the spaces between my fingers with cold. It doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease, just keeps pounding against my skull like a slow, relentless hammer.
On and on as if attempting to rinse the blood off of me.
And failing miserably.
I just sit there, letting it drown out everything, staring at the pavement slick with water and blood.
Red is still a color in the darkness. If it’s the only hope I have, then so be it.
The rain stops.
No, it doesn’t.
Something’s blocked it.
A pair of beat-up sneakers come into view, water pooling around them, the edges darkened by the downpour. My gaze trails up, taking in the faded jeans clinging to slim legs, a black hoodie pulled low over a delicate face that’s covered by thick-framed glasses.
But they don’t manage to hide the deep-blue eyes.
Fuck. Those eyes.
I’m held hostage staring at them and the conflicted emotions they carry in the clear, bright blue—perturbed, soft, but also searching.
The girl holds an umbrella over our heads, the fabric sagging under the weight of the rain.
Blue. Just a shade lighter than her eyes.
She’s angled it more at me, letting the downpour soak the shoulders of her hoodie, dripping on her worn-out backpack.
There’s no flinching, no hesitation. Not at the sight of my busted lip, the split skin stretched tight over my cheekbone, or the blood smeared on my face and down my throat.
Not even at my clothes, torn and damp, clinging to me like the last evidence of a fight I barely walked away from.
No disgust.
No wariness.
Just concern.
Pure, unfiltered concern for a fucking stranger.
I say nothing, just drop my gaze, willing her to fucking go.
“Do you need help?” Her voice isn’t pitying, isn’t careful, but steady, assertive. Like she genuinely means it.
“Fuck off,” I grunt low in my throat.
The sneakers slide back, just an inch, dragging against the concrete, but she doesn’t leave.
Instead, she reaches into her backpack and presses something into my bloodied palm.
A chocolate caramel protein bar.
“Sorry, that’s all I have. Stay strong.”
Then, before I can tell her to shove her sympathy up her ass, she does something even dumber.
She places the umbrella in my hand and runs off.
Holding her backpack over her head as she disappears into the foggy rain.
That was my perception of Violet Winters. A Goody Two-shoes who would stop and help as much as she could when others wouldn’t even bother to look.
So why the fuck is her name and face on the list of people who stood by in a public square as my mother was stabbed to death twenty fucking times?
As I watch her scurrying through the alley, I want to grab and shake her. To kill her and avenge my mom.
But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?
As if feeling my gaze, Violet pauses, glances back, and freezes, her eyes widening and her shoulders shrinking.
She shouldn’t have looked back.
Because I’m striding toward her, and this time, I will burn that first encounter out of my mind.
She’s not the girl with the haunting eyes, blue umbrella, and chocolate caramel protein bar.
She’s one of them.
6
VIOLET
My stalker has a vendetta against me.
In reality, he’s not a stalker, but more like a man out for revenge.
Jude Callahan.
That’s the name of the man who’s been inserting himself into my unremarkable life lately.
I googled him earlier, after I threw up upon seeing him on-screen.
Jude Callahan is not only a hockey god, but one of the heirs to the Callahan pharmaceutical empire.
Someone who could buy Stantonville and everyone in it without batting an eye.
And he’s related to Susie—her only son, actually.
After that night and being questioned by the police, I learned the name of the woman I failed, but I never thought I’d hear it again a few months later.
This time, coupled with her son’s name.
It all made sense. The stalking, the ‘reflect on your sins’ declaration, and his harsh glares from outside the bar’s window.
It’s all…my fault.
My nails sink into the straps of my backpack, and I stand frozen in place by the coldness in his dark eyes.
I can’t move.
I want to, but I’m unable to.