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)
I hang up, stroll to Violet’s side, and sit on the edge of the bed.
I don’t touch her.
Ever since the time I tried to peel her eyelids open, I haven’t laid a hand on her. There hasn’t been a reason to.
She hasn’t been agitated in her sleep and hasn’t needed my hand on her back to calm her down.
Not when she’s been so…still.
However, she’s making slight movements now, no longer playing dead in a hospital bed.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and look at her soft face. “Wake up, Violet. We have a lot of shit to talk about.”
She stirs but doesn’t open her eyes.
And I wonder what she’s dreaming about. Is it her mother again? Maybe Dahlia?
Would she ever dream of me?
Not that I want her to, especially since most of her dreams are nightmares.
My phone vibrates in my hand, showing the group chat, now named ‘The Vipers’ Den.’
Pres
Guess what I’ve done?
Pres
I’m glad you asked. Voilà!
Attached is a picture of a burning motorcycle.
Kane
JFC, what is that?
Pres
Marcus Osborn’s ride.
Kane
The fuck, Pres? I told you to figure out a way to keep him out of Vencor.
Pres
Eh, that’s what I’m doing?
Kane
No, that’s not what you’re doing. You’re deliberately provoking him. With all the shit you keep pulling, he might accept the Osborns’ offer to officially join the family. We don’t want that.
Pres
Nah, he would never join the family that slapped the bastard child tag on him and cut him and his mom off.
Kane
You’re underestimating him. Stop messing with the prick just because he humiliated you in the last game, Pres.
Pres
He did NOT humiliate me. I was having an off day that had NOTHING to do with him. Besides, he’s the one who fucked with me first. I’m petty, PETTY. Like the greatest petty any petty can ever pettily meet.
Kane
How the hell did he fuck with you?
Pres
Not important. He just did, and I burned his bike. @Jude doesn’t this shit look hot as hell?
Me
Kane is right. Stop poking the bear, Pres.
Pres
You’re supposed to say: Hell yeah, you’re so fucking awesome, Pres! I feel privileged to have you in my life. Copy and paste, please.
Kane
You know Marcus will get his revenge for this, right? You burned his only mode of transportation.
Pres
That’s the whole fucking point, man.
Instead of these childish tantrums, how about you conserve that energy to train harder so you can handle him on the ice next time we play against the Wolves?
Kane
What Jude said. He made a fool out of you the other time, Pres. It was embarrassing to watch.
Pres
Friendship revoked. You bitches can go die.
Preston Armstrong removed Kane Davenport and Jude Callahan from the chat.
I shake my head. He’ll add us back in when he has some other shenanigans to report on.
Kane is right about Preston’s episodes, but I have no fucking clue how to deal with the motherfucker, especially when his brain decides to burn shit at three in the fucking morning.
I’m even considering talking to his dad, because things are getting out of control fast. But then again, I know all about the love-hate relationship they share, so I’m not sure if that would help rein in Pres or make him spiral further out of control—
Bang!
A sharp, metallic crash comes from somewhere outside the room.
Instinct takes over as I pull a gun from my belt. The safety’s off, so my body moves before my thoughts can catch up.
I stride toward the door, gripping the weapon firmly, ready to fire if necessary—
My chest seizes.
A vicious, suffocating constriction wraps around my lungs, like invisible hands digging in, squeezing the air from me. My vision blurs at the edges, dark tendrils creeping in like ink spreading through water.
What the fuck—
I stumble, my knees buckling before I can even reach the door. My hand spasms, the gun slipping from my grip, clattering uselessly to the rug.
Gas.
Fucking paralyzing gas.
I’ve been trained for this—conditioned for it by my father to prepare me for Vencor. Poison, gas, and pain training are a must for all Founders’ children, and I was no exception.
But this is different.
It’s too strong.
I can’t even twitch my fingers.
Because whoever did this knew the dosage it would take to bring me to my fucking knees.
And there’s only one person who would keep that in mind, because he oversaw my training right alongside Regis.
Julian.
I don’t have to look up to know it’s him.
I hear the measured footsteps, the deliberate pace, and the effortless control.
“It’s not good manners to steal from me, little bro.” His smooth voice laced with amusement lands on my muddled brain like polished steel.
He steps into view, his dark-brown eyes gleaming under the sterile light, holding a mask to his nose and mouth. His suit is pristine, not a wrinkle in sight, his tie adjusted just enough to be casual but never careless.
Meanwhile, I’m on my fucking knees, my lungs burning, my muscles locking up, the weight of invisible chains dragging me down.