Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Because, at some point, I believed his words—that I was a defect he was fixing—and didn’t consider his punishment wrong. When I was younger, I even blamed myself for being born a weakling and not meeting his expectations.
Jude and Preston didn’t need to be locked up in their fathers’ basements to be cold-blooded; why wasn’t I the same?
Why wasn’t I…wrong?
The answer is, I’m not the one built wrong. He is.
He’s the one who twisted me the fuck up just to fit the mold that suits his vision.
And I still thought I couldn’t hurt him, because he spawned me.
But now, the fog has lifted.
The metaphorical rusty chains that I’ve clasped around my own wrists since I was a kid break, and I laugh harder.
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” Grant asks.
“On the contrary. I’ve never seen things so clearly.” I let out a sigh. “You know, I figured out that becoming like you is the ultimate goal. I had to be so ruthless, so detached and cold, nothing would faze me. Not personal relationships, not people I spent my whole life with. Not even my own mother. Connections are only formed for mutual gain. Being emotionless was the true answer to any problem. Treating everyone like pawns would get me to the top faster and more efficiently.”
“That is correct.”
“Yes. But you see, Father, you’re in my way.”
He faces me, his shoulders bunching. “Me?”
“Yes. I want the Davenport throne, so I can do things the way I see fit and fix your fuckups. You’re a hindrance, preventing my progress.”
“The Davenport throne?” He scoffs. “Don’t make me laugh. You gave it up for this nobody. Do you believe I’ll ever let you ascend it in your state?”
“Let me?” I raise my hand, the gun steady, my finger relaxed. “I don’t need you to let me.”
“You’ll kill me?” He snarls. “For her?”
“For me. Messing with her was only the last straw.”
He curses and swings his hand in Dahlia’s direction, to hit or kill her, I don’t know.
It doesn’t reach her anyway, because I pull the trigger.
The bullet hits the back of his head.
I don’t see his face as he falls, his body hitting the ground.
Motionless.
Finally…silent.
I wait for the feelings of guilt. For the conflict. For the slightest hint of remorse.
Nothing.
Huh.
I guess he really brought me up well.
“Kane…” a small voice whispers in the midst of the blood-soaked silence.
So small and calming.
So small and…sad.
I look up and freeze. Dahlia looks at me with tears streaming down her cheeks, dripping to her collarbone.
Right. She saw me do that unsightly thing.
She must think I’m a true monster now.
Her chin trembles and she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”
And then her head falls forward and she passes out.
33
DAHLIA
Adeep voice swirls around my head.
A very familiar rough voice that only softens for me.
My eyes flutter open, adjusting to the dim light illuminating the room. My body’s heavy, and everything aches against the soft sheets beneath me. They’re cool against my skin, smelling faintly of cedarwood and fresh detergent.
Where is this place…?
Recent memories slash through my psyche.
The torture. Kane’s father.
Kane’s words.
Kane.
I startle into a sitting position.
Am I in his old room? It’s surprisingly simple aside from the luxurious cream wallpaper. The furniture is sleek, minimalist—everything sharp edges and clean lines. No clutter, no personal touches, except for the faded scent of him lingering in the air, a mix of something dark and woodsy.
That’s when I see him.
Kane’s standing by the window, staring at the night staking its claim on the Japanese garden while talking on the phone in a low, hushed tone.
A breath spits out of my lungs.
And I breathe.
For the first time since I was cornered by his father, I inhale and exhale a large gulp of air, fill my lungs with it, completely flounder in it.
He’s okay.
He looks like himself—vicious chaos contained in a thread of calm.
“You prepared the boat?” he asks, then listens, his index finger twitching against his thigh. “No crew members, correct.” More listening, more staring out at the horizon. “I’ll be there shortly.”
I pull the soft black sheet to my chin.
The trembling returns.
The realization.
The doomsday feeling.
Kane killed his father. He shot him in the head in a cutthroat, emotionless way. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t think twice as he killed his own father.
For me.
No.
Because of me.
What have I done?
He tilts his head in my direction, his eyes sharp, his expression cold.
My jittery insides quiver, and I feel so small in the vast bed, my emotions jumping all over the place, flaring up and detonating like a box of matches.
“You’re awake.” He speaks slowly, with no emotion.
He’s like that demon from the initiation. The unfeeling monster I couldn’t reach inside of, no matter what I did.
My heartbeat quickens as he walks toward me at a deliberately slow pace, the sound of his footsteps echoing in my chest.
“You feel better?” His words are monotonous. Robotic, even.