Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
The walls are lined with trophies, mounted heads of elk and moose and bighorn sheep, shot and caged by him. A massive grizzly bear stands in one corner, rearing up to its full nine-foot height, frozen in its final moment of defiance.
I’ve always hated that bear. Always understood it too well.
My father sits behind a desk carved from a single piece of massive oak, his back to the door as he gazes out over his domain. At fifty-eight, he’s still built like the college linebacker he once was, broad-shouldered and solid muscle, with hands large enough to crush a man’s windpipe. I know, because I’ve seen him do it.
Some things you can’t forget.
“You’re late.”
That’s all he says. He doesn’t even turn to look at me when he speaks. Not sure why I expect him to greet me differently. He’s been like this for years.
I check my watch—8:58. “No, sir. I’m early.”
At my response he turns, fixing me with eyes a few shades darker than my own ice blue.
“Sure. Sit.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk, the one deliberately set lower than his own. If there’s ever one thing you should know about my father it’s that everything he does is intentional, a play for power. Roman Bishop is the king at making others feel small and insignificant. I do as I’m told, keeping my face carefully neutral.
Years of practice have made meetings like this second nature to me.
Show nothing, reveal nothing.
Especially to him.
Emotions are weak. Feelings are weak.
When you have no emotion, taking another person’s life is easy, as simple as breathing. And that’s what he expects of me.
“Tell me what happened with Martin Everett.” His eyes lock onto mine, quiet but devastating, the kind of stare that strips you down to whatever ugly truth you’re hiding. There’s no room to breathe, no space to think—just the terrible certainty that he’ll know if I whisper anything less than the truth.
“I’ll be honest with you. Shit went sideways. He got away, and we had to chase him down. Things ended the same way we planned, just with a little more cleanup than usual.”
“Is that right?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
The sleeve of his crisp white shirt rides up, revealing the edge of a tattoo, the Bishop brand, the same one that marks our cattle, our horses, and every member of this family.
“I got a very interesting call from Sheriff Tanner this morning. It seems someone reported hearing gunshots out near the James place last night. Any reason you would be at their place?”
Fuck. I hate the way my pulse picks up speed.
Despite the trickling of adrenaline in my veins I keep my breathing even. “Yes, when Martin ran, he made it onto their property. Things didn’t go as planned, but the result was the same. Martin is dead.”
I’m purposely leaving Saint out of the conversation because I don’t know how much Wayne told him.
“A job isn’t done unless it goes the way I told you to get it done, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes.” I begrudgingly answer because I can already smell the lecture he’s cooking up. I suppose a lecture is better than a beating.
“Are you playing stupid with me boy?”
I merely shake my head knowing it doesn’t matter what I say at this point. My father is a loose cannon and he’s going to do whatever he wants to do to me.
“Did I not teach you exactly how I wanted it done? How it needs to be done, every single time?”
“No, you did. I was trying to fix my mistake, trying to ensure that nothing came back on us. I didn’t mean any disrespect by doing things differently.”
The slight clench of his jaw is the only warning I get before he lunges across the desk, his meaty hand circling my throat in a flash. He squeezes, like he’s testing its limits. It takes every ounce of self control I have to swallow down my body’s reaction. Instinct tells me to fight back, but fighting back would only make it worse. I clutch onto the arms of the chair instead of wrapping my own hands around his throat in retaliation. It might make me look weak, but I learned a long time ago that giving him any type of reaction, even defending myself, feeds the beast. He wants a reaction, a fight.
“Fix your mistake? By what? Disgracing my rules, and my way of doing things. Martin never should’ve gotten away. What if he made it further than the preacher’s house? Tell me you aren’t so heartless you can’t comprehend that you killed two people last night, one of which didn’t have to die.” His grip tightens, crushing my windpipe, and causing stars to burst in the corners of my vision.
Each ragged second stretches like a noose tightening, my lungs screaming for air. I’d rather suffocate than give him the satisfaction of reacting. Staring into his eyes, eyes that are almost identical to my own, I don’t see a father. Not anymore. That man died years ago.