Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Kane,” I growl, ignoring Pres’s buzzing. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“I’m curious is all.” He crosses his arms. “Is this a new pattern? Not finishing off your targets?”
“No. I just have a different plan for her. And stop asking questions.”
“All right, I’ll leave you to it.” Kane pushes off the desk and comes closer, shoving Preston, who’s been circling and poking me, out of the way, then whispers in my ear, “Remember, the sister stays out of whatever you’re doing.”
I stare down at him. “Depends on how fast you are with that name.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know, your brother has been threatening me to stop enabling your violent sprees.”
“My brother can go fuck himself. I expect a file in my inbox tomorrow at the latest.”
He grunts out a reply and leaves.
“Heeey…” Preston whispers near my ear, resuming poking me. “Do you hear me? Will the real Jude please stand up?”
“Fuck off.” I swat him away.
“Oh, you’re back, big man.” He grins. “I was on the verge of starting an exorcism side gig and shit. Might accidentally become a cult leader, though. Not that I’m against the idea per se, but those fanatics can be crazy, not that I’m less crazy, so maybe it’s not a bad idea. Think Dad would finally disown me once I’m on the news…?”
I leave him blabbering and stride out of the office, but, of course, he falls in step beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Sooo, Violetta, huh? Are we stalking? Because I have the perfect hoodie.”
My shoulders tense, but I feign indifference. “You are not stalking, Pres.”
“Why not?”
“Because you start shouting ‘This is stupid. Let’s fuck them up instead!’ ten minutes in.”
“I mean, it kind of was. Your previous targets that I had the misfortune of stalking were more boring than monogamy, and we all know that’s, like, my least favorite thing. But—” He headlocks me. “You’re not killing this Veronica or hunting her after all this time, so she must not be boring. I want to see for myself.”
“No.” I punch him in the side. Hard.
“Fucking hell.” He grunts, releasing me and bending over, then grins with a manic edge. “That interesting?”
I leave even as his unhinged laughter echoes in the air.
Well, fuck me sideways.
I think I just piqued Preston’s interest in something neither he nor Kane should know about.
5
JUDE
Afew hours later, I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.
I should be home, but I don’t have one of those.
My only home—my mother—was ripped from between my fingers in a gruesome scene.
So here I am again.
Tilting on the edge of violence, rage, and…something else I can’t quite pinpoint.
I lean against my bike, my arms crossed, the chilly night air curling around me like a ghost.
I barely feel it against my leather jacket slipping off me, like I’m made of something the cold can’t touch. My helmet stays on, visor down, turning the world into a dim, distorted reflection. I prefer it this way—keeps the filth at arm’s length.
Across from me, ‘HAVEN’ glows in flickering neon blue, casting a sickly light over the cracked sidewalk and the half-smoked cigarette butts crushed into the pavement.
The irony of the name isn’t lost on me. This place is no fucking haven—just another Stantonville hole-in-the-wall where men rot from the inside out and women learn to smile through it.
The air is thick with the stench of old beer, fried grease, and sickening desperation.
Stantonville is a shithole, always has been. Its streets sag under the weight of rusted-out cars, busted streetlights, and people who stopped trying a long time ago. A far fucking cry from Graystone Ridge, where power drips from every surface and the world bends to the will of men like me.
But even in this dump, she stands out.
Through the bar’s hazy windows, I catch a glimpse of her moving behind the counter, wiping down glasses, her mouth set in a small line.
She looks like she belongs here. And at the same time, like she doesn’t.
Violet Winters is a contradiction of epic proportions.
Starting with her hair. It’s not red, not blonde, but something in between, like fire and honey tangled together. It’s a little messy, just past her shoulders, with strands that slip from behind her ear when she moves too fast.
Then her face. Too soft and full of disturbing innocence for a place like this. Heart-shaped, delicate, like something carved from porcelain and left in the hands of men who don’t know how to handle fragile things.
I’m one of those men who keep just…wanting to break her fucking neck. See that face shattered to pieces right beneath my shoe.
But one of the biggest contradictions?
Her eyes, blue and troubled but not the type that fade into the background. No. They slice through shadows, searching, like she’s always looking for something that’s just out of reach.
Like right now.