Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Yeah, they’re branded when they’re babies. It’s a ritual all the parents perform.”
“That’s crazy.” My shoulders go slack. “I’ve heard enough. Anything else?”
“Yes! Be careful. I only know so much about them because I’ve studied them for as long as I’ve known them. I’ve never shared my thoughts with anyone else, because no one else has become close to them, but I can see that’s going to be changing with you. You need to be careful, Madi.”
I clutch the door handle and push it open, taking my bags out of the backseat. “Okay, I’ll be careful, but I think you’re being paranoid.”
She offers a small smile before I close the passenger door, and then she skids out of my driveway.
This kind of stuff just doesn’t happen, not in this world.
SLAMMING THE FRONT DOOR CLOSED, I walk into the kitchen with all the information Tatum just fed me brewing in my brain. Pulling a Coke from the fridge, I close the door when my heart leaps at the sight of Hunter leaning against the entryway.
“Shit!” My hand flies up to my chest.
“Sorry.” He smirks. “Nate has training, so he has me on babysitting duties.”
“Babysitting duties?” I ask, offended. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
He shrugs. “Brantley is here. You need someone near you when he’s around.”
I cock my head, running my eyes over him. Standing at around six-foot-two, he towers over my five-foot-three.
“Why?” I ask, my eyes diverting to the wall. “What did I do to him?”
Hunter pauses, his finger running across his upper lip. “That’s not something you need to worry about yet.”
“I’m sure I could just get the full lowdown if I ask Tatum,” I mumble from the rim of my Coke.
“Tatum?” He barks out a laugh. “Tatum lives for drama and bullshit. Nothing she says holds any substance.” His eyes narrow on me briefly.
“And your words do?” I cock my head. “I don’t need a sitter,” I mutter bitterly, as I head toward the stairs—only for a wall of muscle to slam into my face yet again. “Jesus!” I cuss, getting annoyed at how my house has been taken over by mysterious boys who can never give me any answers. My eyes travel up a broad chest and land on Brantley’s dark, beady eyes. He has a bit of scruff around his jaw—not much, just enough it’ll scratch you lightly—and his eyes are as dark as a bottomless pit leading to the gates of hell. And when he opens his mouth, I find his words are much like his eyes.
“You’d do good to stay the fuck outta my way.”
Having about enough of all this bullshit, I cross my arms in front of myself. ‘Cause I’m a badass. “What the fuck did I ever do to you?”
I can feel Hunter’s presence behind me, silently watching.
Brantley’s eyes snap to mine, burning into me like a hot knife through cold butter. “How about just existing? Everything was fine until you came back,” he mutters, before shoving me out of the way and walking toward the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle and peers at me over his shoulder briefly. His dark jeans hang off his narrow hips, and the white tee he is sporting clings to him effortlessly. He mumbles something before storming out the door.
“Back?” I ask Hunter. “I’ve never been here in my life.”
He watches me, pushing off the side of the wall. “He didn’t mean back. He just meant when you got here.” He walks toward the front door, dismissing me. “I’m out. My duties are no longer needed.”
I stay there, staring at the door absently for a couple of breaths. “What in the world?” Immensely confused by everything that has shifted in my world in such a short amount of time, I walk up the stairs and into my room, pulling out my sketchbook and sitting down at my desk. Taking the remote off my table, I push Play on my sound dock. Picking up my pencil, I then press it into the corner of the blank white page and start scribbling.
Banging on my door somehow breaks through my drawing and music haze.
Thud thud thud. “Madi!”
Sliding my chair back, I glance at my alarm clock that sits on top of my bedside table. “Fuck.” It’s 5:30 p.m. I have been sketching for three hours flat without so much as a break for fresh air. Before my mom passed, I would draw like this at least three times a week, if not more, but since she died, I find it more difficult to completely let go of my surroundings and engross myself into my pencil and pad. Music has always been an outlet for me, but sketching was something personal that my mom and I used to do together.
Pulling on my bedroom door, I open it to Tatum. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I got a little carried away in my drawing.”