Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
In my eyes, he’s the most beautiful man there ever was. Made even more beautiful now that I know what his scar represents. Pain and tragedy. Strength and survival. If anything, his scar makes him more of an angel than any other feature about him. And if he is a monster, then it has nothing to do with his face.
“This is rich, ain’t it?”
His rough murmur breaks through my thoughts, and I realize his eyes are flashing hot. “What?”
“The Turner Princess pityin’ me herself.”
“I’m not…” I trail off when something occurs to me. Something awful, so fucking awful that my chest wants to cave in. And as I look into his furious eyes, his contemptuous glare, I know. I know I’m right. I know what I’m about to say is the horrible truth.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I whisper, my breaths strangled, my wrists throbbing painfully in his mean grip. “Your parents didn’t die in an accident. My father… He k-killed them, didn’t he. He… he killed your family.”
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. My father, he… How many lives has he destroyed? How many lives has he taken? Is there no end to his cruelty, his destruction? Oh God, I can’t…
“You came here to know about me, yeah?” he rumbles, his voice low and rough. “Know who I am. What my name is. Yeah, my name is Radisson. I’m not a Grayson; I’m a King. I’m the man whose life your daddy destroyed. When I close my eyes, I dream about seein’ the light go out of his while I tighten the noose around his neck and choke him to death. And then huntin’ down every last Turner and doin’ the same thing to them. I dream about taking everythin’ from your father like he took everythin’ from me. I dream about blood and spilled guts and revenge. So no, I wasn’t born to hate you.” I flinch, but he keeps going. “And I don’t hate you out of loyalty. I fuckin’ loathe you because I was born a man, but your daddy turned me into a monster when I was fifteen. You’re far safer bein’ used by the Graysons for the land and the decades-old rivalry than you are with me. ’Cause at the end of this, they’ll let you go, but if it were up to me, I’d rope the Turner Princess to my side and keep her until all my dreams of revenge come true and I can fuckin’ get a good night’s sleep.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Quiet Mustang
JOHN WALKER IS an addict. According to the police reports, he robbed a gas station on the night of January 28, 2024, with a gun he had a license for and ended up shooting the store clerk. The clerk sustained two bullet wounds and had to be rushed into surgery. John was found to be under the influence and was charged with separate counts of robbery, assault, and attempted murder, along with drug charges. He got a plea deal and was sentenced to seven years in prison. He’s done two years of it on the inside. The rest, he’s going to do here: at Rawhide ranch. Or at least, that’s the plan.
He needs to survive me first.
John sits tied to a wooden chair, the yellow overhanging light illuminating his injuries. His face is swollen from day-old bruises, his nose bleeding, his mouth bleeding too. There are a few teeth scattered on the floor around his feet, along with puddles of blood and piss. Makes sense; he’s been tied to this chair for over eight hours and we didn’t give him a bucket. I stand in front of him as I wrap gauze around my hands, my feet wide. His bloodshot eyes follow my slow movements as he begs, “Jesus, fuck, h-how long do I-I—”
I rear back and punch him in the face, shutting him up. The first punch is always the sweetest. I like to savor it, let it loosen my muscles, warm up my blood as I crack my neck and get in position again. He’s still cursing from the first punch and already begging me to stop. He knows I’m not going to, so I don’t know why he keeps wasting his words. But then again, I’m not an expert when it comes to words, so what do I know.
All I know is that this feels good. Letting my arms fly and beating him with my fists. Letting my body talk instead of my mouth. There’s something calming about that. It at least calms the words inside of me. The ones that are stuck in my head. I can see them but can’t really say them unless I put in a fuck ton of effort. All day, they bang inside of me and I try to quiet them down. They make me angry. They frustrate me. They remind me that I’m not normal. Or whole. Not anymore. Not for the last sixteen years. On the outside, I may look like just another man, barring the scar on my face, but on the inside, I’ve got huge pieces missing.