Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“With who? This party’s exhausting. Seriously, Tallie, this is hard, but take your chances when you get them, okay?”
She leaves me to stew. I grab a glass of champagne and think about what she said. Why wouldn’t Brenden come to me? After what he did in the office, I feel like he owes me that much at least. But the more I obsess about it, and the more I touch the twin lighters I have shoved into the small pocket in my dress, the more pissed off I become.
This is his mess too. I’m not in this alone. He’s marrying me and he should take some ownership of that. Did he know that day in the office? Did he know who I was the whole time and didn’t bother saying anything?
Maybe that’s why he was so forward.
He felt like he owned me already.
I need space. The party feels suffocating. I slip away into the house where the air conditioning cools the sweat on my skin and makes me shiver. I stalk down a side hall and into a quiet wing where guests don’t usually go.
I’m vaguely familiar with the mansion. I didn’t grow up here, but my father has been bringing us for visits throughout the years. I’ve explored all the rooms and side hallways and the strange hidden crevices with Sam and we’ve gotten in trouble more than once for getting into places that we shouldn’t. My cousins are all older than I am and I didn’t really know them growing up, but I’ve always loved this house. It’s so strange and big, a relic of another era.
I lean against the wall near a window and gather myself together. I can’t let Brenden fluster me so much, not when I don’t even know the guy. We had one interaction and nothing more. He went down on me, got me off better than I’ve ever managed it in my life, and convinced me to steal from an old couple of arms dealers. All in all, a fun twenty minutes.
I’m feeling better when I hear a noise in a room nearby. There shouldn’t be anyone back here. These are mostly empty guest suites. I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever stayed in any of them. I drift over to where I heard the bump and hesitate, listening at the door, and there it is again. A soft knocking, like someone’s banging against a wall with a muffled hammer.
“Hello?” I open the door and peer inside. “Is there anyone in here?” Thoughts of ghosts, of long-dead owners of this place, or maybe long-murdered victims of the Sarkissian family, make me feel jumpy. I know what the Sarkissians do, and there are some very nasty rumors about the brothers, especially the current Patron. From what I’ve heard, Arsen had a psychotic break and went crazy on some members of his family back in the day. I’m not sure how much I believe that though.
“Is that you, Talin?”
I yelp and jump sideways, smashing my head into the door frame. I groan, lights flashing in my eyes, and grab the back of my skull. Brenden steps from the closet, grimacing and reaching a hand out like he can do something to help.
“I’m fine,” I hiss through my teeth and swat him away. “What the hell? That freaking hurt.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What the hell are you even doing back here?!”
He guides me by the elbow to the bed and makes me sit on the edge. “Let me take a look.” His touch is surprisingly gentle and he sounds like he’s concerned. “Hm, no blood, that’s good. But there’s going to be an ugly little knot if we don’t get you some ice.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Come on.” He tugs me back up. “Any dizziness? Feel sick at all?”
“I’m not concussed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He puts an arm around me. His body’s big and warm as he pulls me closer and makes me lean on him. “The kitchen’s this way.”
“How do you know that?”
He doesn’t answer. We walk into the hall, despite my protests. I try to convince him that I’m fine, but he does have a point. There’s a splitting headache grinding down the back of my spine, and when I try to wriggle my way free, it only gets worse.
To my surprise, Brenden navigates the maze-like mansion with ease. He breezes me into the kitchens, ignoring the staff and the cooks hard at work preparing the food for the party guests, and sits me down on a stool in the corner. He fetches ice wrapped in a towel and presses it to the lump.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, holding it tight. “What’s five times five?”
“Twenty-five, the number of punches to the kidneys you’re about to get if you don’t stop fretting over me like that.”