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)
She stares out the window and freezes. Her hand holding the glass shakes uncontrollably and she drops it on the counter.
I don’t hear the shatter, but I see it. In the slight jump in her shoulders and the way her lips form an O. I can almost feel the tremors racking her body like when I cornered her in that filthy alley last night.
Violet Winters is scared of me. No. Terrified.
She should be.
Because Kane and Preston are right. All my previous targets are buried six feet under, and she’ll join them.
Soon.
The bartender, a tall guy with a buzz cut, checks on her, and she flinches slightly, but then she forces her lips into this mechanical smile as she picks up the shards of glass.
With her bare fucking hands.
Naturally, she pricks her finger, and the bartender grabs her hand and presses a napkin on it, saying something to which she smiles.
Awkwardly.
I suppose her coworkers wouldn’t know it’s awkward, considering she always seems to be smiling as if her life is perfect and she’s the happiest goddamn person alive.
She’s not.
Subtly, too subtly, she pulls her hand from the guy’s grip and bends over, but she’s behind the counter now, so I can only see the bartender as he looks down.
I tilt my head to the side. What the fuck is happening behind that counter?
The moment lasts for a while before he moves at the raised hand of one of the customers.
Violet emerges soon after and scurries out of view.
My fist clenches and unclenches as I watch the place she disappeared to.
She’s always…disappearing.
With a grunt, I hop onto my bike and drive it to a secure parking lot, then I walk back in time to see them leave.
I wait by the corner as Violet waves at the bartender and they go their separate ways.
She glances around, probably looking for me, and when she doesn’t see me or the bike, her tense shoulders relax and she pulls the hoodie low on her face. That’s what she always wears if she’s not in her work shirt—baggy, unflattering hoodies that don’t showcase her body.
I follow from a safe distance as she performs her usual ritual. She buys sandwiches from some greasy fast-food place, then walks back to her shithole of a neighborhood at a brisk pace, her eyes aimed at the ground.
Always.
She has no idea I’m watching.
Not when I make myself unnoticeable. She only sees me when I want her to see me.
Though she wasn’t supposed to last night, but I couldn’t just stand by and let another man play with my toy.
Only I get to break her.
I watch with a barely contained snarl as she gives the homeless people food and then cautiously approaches the alley in which I cornered her last night.
She glimpses behind her and then goes in, quickening her steps.
I stand in place.
If she looks back again, if she searches for me one more time, I’ll finish her.
Kane and Pres are right. It’s long overdue.
Maybe I’ll just kill her without the hunt I make every target go through just so they’ll feel the desperation.
See a light at the end of the tunnel, only for it to be me.
Their grim reaper.
But that wouldn’t solve the mystery as to why I haven’t ended Violet’s miserable life up until now.
See, there’s one more contradiction about Violet Winters.
The worst of all.
She’s a girl who feeds the homeless while staying hungry, volunteers at multiple charities, and stops to play with kids and dogs. She also checks on people on the side of the road, even if they look forgotten, in pain, or simply done with life.
I know, not only because I’ve done my research—or Kane did—but also because I was on the receiving end a couple of years ago.
The rain pours down on me, plastering my torn shirt to my body, seeping into the cuts all over my face and chest.
I can’t walk anymore, so I sit by the bridge, my bloodied knuckles hanging off my bent knees, the sting of raw skin drowning beneath the downpour.
My body throbs, every nerve alight in the aftermath of my latest trial for Vencor. Physical. Fists, boots, words—the founding members wielded them all like weapons, and they made damn sure I felt every single one.
I was tasked with fighting my way out of a literal violence fest, and I did. Because Mom needs me to be powerful so I can protect her from this world. Regis—the man who contributed in making me—sure isn’t.
Julian has always said that the only way to protect those I love is to rise in the ranks, beat up those at the top, and take their place. It’s to make sure those who look up or covet my position would end up with a chopped-off neck.
There’s no room for weakness or second thoughts. A moment of hesitation can mean losing my mom—the only person who’s ever loved me unconditionally.