Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Don’t go through major cities until we hit the North,” Beast mutters, eyes half-closed but still fucking monitoring me. “We stay on the back roads.”
“Yeah, okay, boss,” I say, but listen.
We snake past towns instead of into them. Stick to lonely petrol stations where the attendants don’t look twice at bloody kids and dead eyes.
By the time we hit Picton, my spine’s one long knot and the sky’s sliding from black into washed-out blue. Even the port looks half-asleep, lights smeared across the water, and the air tastes like salt and rust, cold enough to bite.
“Ferry,” Beast says, pointing at the hulking shape docked ahead like I can’t fucking see it.
I snort. “You sure that’s not Vanguard’s new toy?”
He smirks, first real one since we crawled through that hole. “If it is, they got lazy with branding.”
We crawl into the queue of cars. Normal people. Normal fucking lives. A family in a minivan in front of us, kids pressing their faces to the back window, staring at us like we’re zoo animals. They’re not wrong.
“Don’t stare back,” I mutter.
“I’m not.” He waves at the kid anyway. Little shit lights up like it’s Christmas.
Tickets are a problem until they’re not. Beast palms the Vanguard cash roll he lifted on the way out, and the woman at the booth barely looks up as she takes our money and prints passes. Just another car. Just another pair of lost boys turned men.
We drive into the belly of the ferry and follow directions, parking between a ute with a dog in the back and some suit’s shiny company car.
"You ready to see civilians?" I tease, knowing he's probably freaking out right now.
"Fuck you." he shoves open his door and I follow.
We climb out and head upstairs, following the pack of passengers. Stale coffee and cafeteria grease smells a lot like freedom.
People shiver into jackets, clutch takeaway cups, complain about the early sailing and the cold and whatever tiny shit feels like a crisis when you’ve never had your blood hosed off concrete.
We push past them and step out onto the viewing deck.
Wind slams into us. Real, violent. Marlborough Sounds stretch out ahead, green hills rising straight out of the water, mist clinging to their edges. The Strait is a little temperamental, like it can’t decide if it wants to be beautiful or dangerous.
Beast walks up to the railing and plants his hands on it, knuckles pale. For a second, with the wind flattening his shirt against muscle and his hair whipping around his face, he looks…young. His age. Twenty-one. Not Vanguard’s Beast. Just a guy seeing something for the first time that isn’t a target or a training schedule.
I step beside him, shoulders brushing. He doesn’t move away.
“It’s fucking big,” he says.
I huff. “That’s what she said.”
He laughs, loud and raw, and a couple of tourists glance over like we’ve ruined their nice little sunrise moment. Good. I want to piss all over their peace.
Pulling away from the dock, the ferry grunts, and groans as we slide out into the Sounds. It doesn’t take long for the hills to close in and the water to turn glossy. It’s quiet except for the hum of the engines and the wind ripping every useless thought out of my head.
Beast leans forward, eyes tracking the water.
“One day,” he says, voice lower, rougher. “I’m gonna get married right here.”
I snort, because what the actual fuck. “Where? On this floating tin can?”
He shakes his head. “Middle of the Cook Strait. Between islands. Nowhere and everywhere. No one can get to us out here.”
Marriage. Him dropping that word like it’s not loaded. Like we’re not statistically more likely to die drunk and alone in some ditch.
“You planning on shackling some poor bitch to you on the high seas?” I ask.
He smirks sideways at me, wind lifting the corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”
“She better like pretty boys with ugly monsters,” I say, bumping his shoulder with mine. “Or she’s gonna have a bad time.”
His jaw ticks, like I’ve just poked something that lives under his skin. He doesn’t look away from the water when he says, “What if she’s a monster too?”
My chest pulls tight. Old Vanguard words circle like vultures. Subject will engage in intimate contact only with approved targets.
“Then your odds go up,” I say. “Monsters are hard to kill.”
He hums low, like he’s agreeing with more than I said.
We fall quiet again as the Sounds open onto open water. With each sway, it gets rougher. Once we hit the Strait, the ferry's riding up and down over swells that make a kid behind us cry.
Spray hits my face, cold and clean. Headlands fall away until it’s just us and water and sky.
Middle of nowhere.
Middle of everything, if you’re Beast.
“Think they’ll chase us this far?” he asks after a while, like he’s just tossing it out there, but his fingers are white on the rail.