Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I take them and watch him swallow two himself.
“The limp isn’t better,” I tell him, as if he didn’t know.
“It’ll be fine. Just needs some time.”
I follow him into his bedroom, where he drops onto the edge of his bed like he’s exhausted.
I sit beside him and lay my head on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t let him do it.”
“I’d rather he beat me than you,” he says and guilt washes over me even though that’s not his intention. Our father is an asshole and a drunk. And Odin has stood between him and me too many times.
“I wouldn’t.” I look up at him.
“Well, sis, you’re safe now,” he says with a dark smile on his face. “You belong to Santos Augustine. I don’t think he’ll take it well if our father lays a hand on you.”
“Is that like the silver lining or something? Because it’s a crappy silver lining.”
He chuckles and scoots back to lean against the headboard. He studies me. “What did he say to you? Before he did it?”
I cross the room, push the curtain aside to look out into the dark street. I’m not sure if the lights I see in the distance are the tail lights of the Augustines’ cars.
“Forgive me,” I say, turning back to Odin.
“Hmm.”
“And then the ominous, ‘You belong to me now… Don’t forget it.’” I mimic Santos Augustine’s low, dark voice. “Asshole.”
“You do, though. You understand that, right?” Odin asks seriously.
“I understand that he’s a jerk and a bully. I understand that our father fucked up and what they should do is punish him.”
“They are.”
“No, they’re punishing all of us.”
“These things are complicated. There’s history between our father and Brutus Augustine.”
“What history?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure of the details, but Santos’s aunt, Brutus’s older sister, used to work for The Club. Something happened with her and dad.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “He hurt her?” I know what he’s capable of.
“I guess. It doesn’t matter for you. It was a long time ago. What matters is that you take this seriously.”
“It’s not the middle ages. Women don’t belong to men anymore.”
“People don’t sign contracts on parchment in blood anymore either. This is real, Madelena.”
“Don’t call me that.” He only uses my full name when he’s either angry at me or I’ve done something stupid. I can’t stand the former and the latter, well, whatever.
“I mean it. Just be careful.”
“Odin—”
“Promise me,” he says in a tone I don’t like, one that is too serious. When I don’t answer right away, he raises his eyebrows.
“Fine. I’ll be careful, whatever that means.” I pick up the framed photo of Uncle Jax, Odin, and me. We took the picture last year at the amusement park. We had such a great time.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I shrug a shoulder and put it down. “I’m going to miss him.”
“Me too.”
He reaches over to open the nightstand drawer where he keeps a small flask. He twists the cap off and holds it out to me.
I mock gasp and touch my hand to my heart. “Odin! I’m fifteen!”
“I think we both deserve a little tonight.”
I take it and drink a big swallow, expecting but still wincing at the burn as it slides down my throat. I hand it back and watch Odin drain the flask.
“You’re going to get wrinkles if you keep looking at me like that,” he says, closing the flask and putting it back in the drawer.
“You’re in pain. I see it.”
He touches my hand. “You and me both. Go to bed. I want to forget today.”
I nod because I want that too. I kiss him on the forehead and switch out the light on the nightstand, leaving the door open a crack. On my way to my bedroom, I take the destroyed handkerchief out of the trash can. I’m not sure why I do it, but I do. I bring it to my nose and inhale the subtle, lingering scent of aftershave beneath the metallic one of blood. In my room, I shove it into the recesses of my bottom dresser drawer and change into pajamas before slipping into bed.
I don’t sleep right away, though. I lie wide awake, staring up at the ceiling, and think about what happened. About how Santos Augustine said those two words before he cut me—like he wasn’t going to enjoy what he was about to do. Like he didn’t want to do it.
But that is a bunch of bullshit, I tell myself, and roll onto my side. If he didn’t want to do it, he could have not done it. He’s an asshole. I know that. All the Augustine men are assholes with too much money, too much power, and absolutely no qualms about getting their hands dirty. I’ve seen Santos out on a few occasions. He always has some beautiful woman on his arm, and he’s always dressed impeccably. He’s also a man people give a wide berth to. That’s subconscious, I think, and pathetic. I know more about him than he might realize.