Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Maybe even her cold heart has the ability to love. Maybe she does care for her father.
I don’t trust myself to look at her, so I turn away and head toward a painting hanging on a wall. It opens to reveal the embedded safe. My fingers work the combination out, the clicks loud in the stillness between us.
The door swings open. Any normal man would simply transfer the amount she needed, but I am not a normal man. I have been driven mad with hate and jealousy. I pull out two thick stacks of cash—fifty thousand each. The crisp notes are bound in neat wrappers. This should be enough to start off her father’s treatment.
“You want this?” I ask, turning around. “Fine. Take it.”
But I don’t hand it to her like a normal man. Instead, the twisted monster in me tears the wrappers off the stack and flings the loose bills up into the air. One thousand one-hundred-dollar bills sail through the air, rain down on her, and scatter all around her like leaves after a storm.
She stares at the money, wide-eyed and stunned, and for a moment, I wonder if she’ll snap—if she’ll finally fight back and scream at me, call me the monster I’ve become. A part of me wants her to.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she lowers her head, her shoulders hunching slightly as she murmurs, “Thank you.” Her voice is so soft, so broken, it feels like a punch to the gut.
Then she sinks to the floor.
My chest tightens painfully as I watch her gather the scattered bills. Her fingers tremble as she picks up the notes one by one. She doesn’t look at me—not even once.
I wanted this, didn’t I? Wanted to see her humbled, humiliated, crawling around on the floor picking up my dirty money while I stood above her. I thought it would feel good, like justice, like revenge.
It doesn’t.
Instead, it feels like someone’s taken a blade to my chest, carving out pieces of me with every move she makes. I wanted her to hurt, but seeing her like this—so small, so defeated—only makes me feel worse. The sight of her crouched on the floor, surrounded by money, is unbearable. It makes me want to grab her, to pull her to her feet, to tell her I’m sorry for every cruel thing I’ve done.
But I don’t.
I can’t see her like this though. Scurrying around for grubby money. The sight sickens me. I made her do this. The guilt is terrible. I can’t stay in this house. I turn on my heel, grab my coat with a jerky movement, and stride out of the room.
But the rustle of her fingers picking up cash trails after me like a ghost.
CHAPTER 17
RAVEN
The air smells of grease and gasoline as I step into the mechanic's shop, the sounds of clanging tools and a distant radio filling the space. My heart races in my chest. I’ve spent the entire morning building up the courage to come here. I don’t even know if he’ll recognize me—or worse, if he’ll care.
I spot him under the hood of an old pickup truck, his body half-hidden. His father isn’t in sight, but Earl is here, his jeans low on his hips, grease smeared along his forearm. Then he rolls out from beneath the truck, his shirtless body glistening with sweat. Sitting up, he reaches for a rag to wipe his hands.
My eyes widen.
I’ve never seen him like this. The sunlight streaming through the open garage doors catches the sheen of sweat on his chest, the lean muscles of his shoulders. There is a faint smudge of grease on his jaw that I itch to wipe off. My face burns, and for a moment, I feel like I should turn around and leave. But I can’t.
He glances up, and his dark eyes lock onto mine. There’s a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe—but his expression remains guarded. He’s so different from the boys at school. Much more mature, much more regal.
“Do you need something?” he asks coldly, like he’s embarrassed I’m seeing him unwashed in these greasy surroundings.
I swallow hard, gripping the handles of my bike tighter. “Um, my chain,” I say, stumbling over my words. “It—it’s broken. I thought maybe … you could help.”
He raises an eyebrow. “We fix cars, not bikes.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “But you’re good with tools, right? It shouldn’t be that different.”
“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Bring it here.”
I wheel the bike over, feeling both triumphant and stupid that my fairly transparent stunt worked. He crouches down, inspecting the chain with a practiced hand, and I catch a better view of his face—a sharp jawline, a stray strand of dark hair falling into his eyes. God, he’s beautiful.
He doesn’t say much as he works, his hands deftly repairing the chain while I stand awkwardly beside him. I’m mesmerized by the precision of his movements. My heart beats erratically as I watch him, every tilt of his head, every flex of his fingers sending a spark through me. I try to keep my gaze neutral, but it’s impossible not to admire the way his body moves—fluid, efficient, strong.