Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
So, you know.
There’s that.
Dear Journal,
I don’t know how to want things without wanting to swallow the entire world whole.
I don’t know how to want things like a person on a canoe with strokes so even.
I don’t know how to want things like a sane girl.
I miss the chaos.
The kaleidoscope of such pretty, wild colors ever-shifting.
Today, I’m still just black and blue.
Today, I meet the rest of Bane’s family.
SIXTY
BANE
I knock once.
Moira opens the door before I can knock again, her expression sharp, unimpressed—until her gaze drops to the ring in my hand. Then, just for a second, something flickers in her eyes. Something she smothers fast, locking it down behind that wicked mouth and defiant chin.
I haven’t been able to read her face since I got her to agree to come here with me, and we haven’t spoken a single word about what happened. I haven’t told her I know why she left. She hasn’t offered any information about her swift departure or anything else. She’s barely spoken two words to me.
At least on the plane, I had ten straight hours of being near her. Of watching her every twitch and squirm. The way her hand so gracefully held her pen as she scribbled furiously in that bright fuchsia notebook of hers with black paint splatters on the cover.
Yet whatever’s changed between us, my obsession with her remains as deep as ever.
“They’re here,” I say simply.
She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. Deliberately casual. “Who’s ‘they?’”
I let the corner of my mouth lift, slow and deliberate. “A den of Blackwolfs.”
She scoffs, but I catch the way her throat moves when she swallows. I don’t miss a single thing. She’s hidden in her extensive suite in the castle since we got here yesterday, and I’m hungry to drink in the way her fingers twitch where they’re tucked under her arms.
I lift the ring, this one heavier than the last, something meant to be seen and send a message. The sconce light catches on the deep-cut facets, the gold of the band gleaming. I clock the way her breathing subtly changes, just enough for me to notice. Just enough for me to feel it.
“You’ll need your armor.”
Her expression doesn’t crack, but her pulse jumps at her throat, a betraying little flutter just under her skin.
She takes her time answering, gaze locked on the ring like it’s a loaded gun. Then a wry eyebrow pops. “You’re upgrading me?”
I tilt my head, drinking her in. Savoring her. “Let’s see how it fits.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it.
But she doesn’t pull away when I take her hand, either. The immediate electric sizzle is still there the second we touch.
I have to force myself not to hold my breath as I press the ring onto her fourth finger. Slow. Deliberate. Watching the way her breath hitches. Watching the way her lips part just slightly before she seals them shut again, locking up whatever reaction she refuses to give me.
But I feel it.
She can pretend all she wants. Pretend she’s indifferent, that this means nothing. But her body betrays her in the quietest ways. The tension in her fingers, the way she lets me slide the ring all the way to the base of her finger without a single protest.
Satisfaction roars in my chest.
Her armor may be up, but she still lets me in.
It’s still there between us. That living flame that bursts to life whenever we’re near each other. If she’s getting help for her mental health, I want to celebrate and support her.
But I won’t let her deny the inferno that is us.
“Ready?” I ask, voice low, dark, meant only for her.
She exhales through her nose, then makes a show of examining the ring like it’s just another accessory. “Let’s get this over with.”
But when I offer my arm, she takes it.
We descend the grand staircase together, the murmur of conversation below growing louder with each step. The dining hall stretches before us, dripping in excess. Dark wood gleams beneath the glow of chandeliers. A fire roars in the massive stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the long dining table that’s ostensibly set for dinner but that’s really set for war.
The air is thick. Every eye in the room is on us as we approach. A meal fit for kings stretches across the table, untouched apart from the wine glasses. Everyone here’s ravenous, but not for food.
They’re waiting. Watching. Calculating.
I lean down, my lips close enough to brush Moira’s ear if I let myself. I exert maximum self-control, though, and stay a millimeter away from her precious skin as I whisper, “Rotterdam’s at the head of the table. He’s my father’s lawyer and a professional vulture. He’ll smile, but only because he enjoys picking people apart at the bones.”
Moira’s lips press together, her spine straighter now. Good girl.