Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
I smile, not sure why he’s bringing this up now. “I remember mosquitos, nasty lake water, and a bad sunburn.”
“We never were the outdoors type, right?”
“Not remotely. Why are you bringing that up now?”
“No reason. A fun memory, that’s all.”
I’m not sure what to make of it, but I’m too distracted to press. We make some more small talk before I leave him alone and head back downstairs. Normally this is where I’d leave it. Luke’s hurt but alive, he’s safe for now at least, and I should go back home.
Instead, I angle toward my father’s office.
He’s home. I don’t doubt it. If he’s not at work, he’s in here, either answering emails or clicking around on his computer. I never know what he’s doing back there and can’t ever ask, not unless I’m in the mood for a lecture and a smack to the mouth.
I doubt even marrying Liam could protect me from his anger.
Dad doesn’t seem happy to see me. The feeling's mutual. At least he’s unhurt. He grunts at my arrival and reluctantly tears his attention from his screen.
“Liam told me about what happened. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine. I was near the entrance when it happened. I got out.” He studies me, a curious expression on his face. “I hear that husband of yours saved lives. He acted quick.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“If not for him, I’d guess there’d be more bodies to clean up. You should be proud.”
Strangely I am. I like that Liam risked himself to help others, especially to help Luke.
“I’ll pass that along.”
“Do what you want.” His attention wanes. I guess now that we aren’t talking about Liam anymore, it’s not interesting. “Anything else? I’m busy now.”
“No, I was only making sure you were okay.”
“You made sure. Good night, Regan.”
His dismissal stings. I don’t move though. I remain rooted in place, aware that I’m only going to get myself hurt, but unable to help myself. His eyes drift back to me and his face pinches in annoyance.
“I want to talk about Luke.”
“What’s there to say about your brother?”
“I want you to protect him, Dad. Keep him out of the fight.”
His expression darkens. “Careful.”
“We both know you have that influence. There’s a reason the Whelans wanted you to marry your daughter off to one of their top men. They listen to you, Dad, and if you asked them to make sure Luke was only ever given safe jobs—“
“Regan, enough.” The ice in his tone sends a jolt down my spine. I clack my teeth together, stiffening to attention, terror lancing through my chest. I’m a little girl again, about to be punished, back before I learned how to survive.
Dad tips toward me. There’s a tired edge in his expression.
“The business is mine. You will never speak to me like this again.”
“I’m only asking—“
“Never. Again.” His lip curls. “I don’t care who you married. You’re still my daughter, and you will respect me.”
I want to fight him. I want to rage. But instead, like always, I drop my gaze to the floor and nod grimly. “Yes, Dad.”
“Leave now.”
I turn on my heel and flee.
Pathetic. God, so pathetic. I shut his door behind me and slump against the wall, breathing hard. Sweat beads my skin. I wanted to stand up to him, to insist that he did something good for once in his life, that he protected someone important instead of using them for his own personal gain, but I couldn’t do it. I wanted to, I really did, but my whole life’s been spent keeping my mouth shut.
I crumbled.
God, I hate myself.
I stagger away toward the foyer. My head’s spinning. I almost don’t notice Luke standing in the shadows of the stairs, near the front door, talking on the phone. I can’t hear him, but he’s whispering rapidly.
Which is odd. He’s acting strangely. I don’t recognize the phone he’s using either. It’s black and one of those flip models from forever ago. His main device is an iPhone, so what’s he need that one for?
I’m about to call out when he hangs up. The grim, vacant stare, clearly lost in thought as he shoves the strange phone away in his pocket, gives me pause.
Why’s he out of bed? What’s he even doing?
He opens the door and leaves the house before I can tell him to stop.
This makes no sense. He’s clearly hurt and in pain. Luke’s not the type to go storming off when he needs rest. When he was younger, he slept in every morning and moaned when Mom dragged him out of bed. He cried when he stubbed his toes or fell on the playground, sometimes inconsolably. Colds knocked him out and he acted like every sniffle was the plague come to end his life.
Now he’s running out with serious injuries?