Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Not jealous. But I am curious if you’ve fuc—”
He turns to me. “Women like that are utterly uninteresting to fuck.” The line comes to a stop, and I almost crash into Isabelle, but Zeke tugs me backward in time.
“But have you?” I ask, turning to him, seeing Vivien and her friends watching me from where they’re still standing.
Zeke’s gaze follows mine before returning to my face. “She sucked my dick once. Exactly once.”
“Oh.” Why am I bothered? Why would I care?
“It was years ago. I was drunk. That was the end of that. I did not fuck her. I had no intention then of fucking her and have no interest now. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m fucking you now. I don’t bed hop. And besides,” he leans in close. “I can still taste you on my tongue.”
I flush hot and red and look around. I’m pretty sure the couple behind us heard that.
Zeke chuckles. Before I can say anything, the line begins to move again, and he nudges me forward. I don’t know what I think about what he just said. It’s strange. Unsettling. But a glance back at the glamorous, beautiful, confident Vivien does do something to me. I am none of those things. And on top of it, she’s Society. She belongs here, same as him. I do not.
Jericho drops his hand from Isabelle’s neck to her lower back and I gasp because her dress is cut low and her hair, which is twisted into an elegant braid over her right shoulder, leaves her back fully exposed. There, along her spine, is a tattoo. Two dragons intertwined. A smaller version of what I saw on Zeke’s back. I glance at Jericho’s hand, see the ink that matches Zeke’s. Do they both have the same tattoo? Is it some sort of family thing? Isabelle’s is beautiful. Much smaller than on the men. It’s intricate and utterly gorgeous.
We enter the large ballroom and people disperse to find their tables. I look around, taking in the mirrored walls, the ornate paneling, the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, their light reflecting off floors polished to a high shine. Large round tables are draped with floor-length tablecloths in cream, breathtaking bouquets of deep red flowers drip from tall centerpieces upon each. There are more plates and silverware than I can count and several bottles of wine on each table. A twelve-piece orchestra plays something vaguely familiar, and I gather from the dance floor, which is empty now, there will be dancing later. Along a side wall, long tables are set with expensive looking items. A silent auction, I guess.
We reach our table and Jericho pulls a chair out for Isabelle. Before anyone can decide where to put me, I pull out the one beside Isabelle and sit.
“The Councilors,” Jericho says to Zeke.
They both turn and Isabelle and I follow their gaze to where, not too far from where we are, three men enter. One is much older than the other two who look to be in their late forties or early fifties.
“Who are they?” I ask Isabelle.
“The first is Councilor Montrose, he’s the oldest. Councilor Hildebrand is next, and Councilor Augustus is the last one. He’s holding the cane which is for show, mostly.”
Following them are four men, two who stand beside the door from which the three entered. They clasp their hands in front of them and I can see they’re security from their posture, the way they move, the way they take in the entire room.
More guards follow, and just before the door closes, he enters. I gasp. Because all of a sudden, just like that, I’m back in that little broken down house and I’m sixteen years old and he’s there. That man. On top of me. His hand inside my panties. His gun in my hand.
27
Ezekiel
Blue has gone white.
I turn from her to the man she’s staring at. Wyatt Hoxton. He’s built as tall as me, but thicker. He’s solid, if a little overweight. I imagine him lying on top of Blue, crushing her. How she’d have felt trapped beneath him. Could she breathe? Then, when he put his hand down her pants—that thought makes me ball my own hands into fists and blood boils in my veins. The monster inside me stirs, urged by a blood thirst. I wasn’t always like this. I never backed away from a fight, but rarely did I seek it out. Now, it’s as though I know what will happen. What I’ll do. And I’m anxious to get to it.
“All good, Brother?” Jericho asks.
I blink, draw a deep breath in and turn to him. I nod.
His gaze moves from me to Hoxton.
I’m glad when Isabelle touches his knee to draw his attention and I return my attention to Wyatt Hoxton. His hair is so blond, it’s almost white and his eyes are so pale that when his gaze scopes the room, I see the pinprick of black pupil scan every face.