Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Mr. Fikile isn’t home. He was called away but asked that I arrange for you to have company for a mid-morning brunch.”
My brows jump and I smile. “Can I call—”
“The calls have already been made. Get yourself ready and be in the garden in one hour.”
She turns and walks away.
Rolling my eyes, I decide I’ll listen, if only to see who she’s invited.
Color me fucking shocked when the only person sitting at the dinette table is Bastian Bishop.
“Boston.” He dips his chin.
“Bastian.” I raise a brow. “Where’s my sister?”
“At The Enterprise,” he says simply, and jerks his head to the left.
A second person joins us, stepping from the row of rose bushes, and this one’s a stranger to me.
She has long dark hair so black it’s nearly blue, and eyes the color of icicles. She looks nothing like the girls in my world, what with her cutoff, jean booty shorts and T-shirt that says Karma is only a bitch if you are tied in the middle to show her stomach. If she’s not from my world, that can only mean she comes from his. Or the one he left behind when he took over as head of my family name.
“Boston Revenaw.” He tips his chin toward the girl in question. “Meet Raven Carver.”
“Never heard the name.”
“Because that’s not her fucking name.”
My head yanks over my shoulder to find a dark-haired guy around my age walking in, his glare pointed at Bastian.
The girl’s laughter catches my attention and I face forward once more, suddenly glad I thought to slip one of my knives into my sleeve—the only reason I’m wearing a long sleeve this time of year. I’m outnumbered by strangers and a man I don’t know enough to trust, even when his position demands I do.
I look to Bastian for an explanation.
He rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat like a lazy sloth. “Boston Revenaw, soon-to-be Fikile, meet Raven Brayshaw.” He looks up at the green-eyed, godlike guy. “Better?”
“Be better when I get her away from you,” the man snaps back.
Bastian scoffs, but it seems to be in good nature, considering the Bastian I’m used to would cut him for his attitude alone.
Speaking of attitude, this girl has resting bitch face. The attractive version, of course.
She smirks and I glare from her to Bastian. “Why are you here?”
“Raven has something she wants to ask you.”
My gaze moves to hers and holds.
She waits for me to ask her what she wants, but she came here. I’m not going to make it easy on her. She wants to talk? I’ll wait for her to.
Not that it takes more than a thirty-second stare-off for her to begin.
“You have a friend I’m curious about.”
“I have no friends.” I mimic Enzo’s words from last night.
She smiles, dropping into the seat and throwing her combat boots—because it’s totally normal to wear tactical gear with jean shorts and be able to look good in it—up onto who I’m assuming is her man’s lap. “His name is Philip Mitchell.”
My eyes narrow. Odd timing, considering what happened last night. For the time being, I play along. “What is it you want to know about him?”
“Everything.”
I eye her closely, wondering what her angle is.
Are they looking to dip their toes in the drug runner world?
Are they drug runners themselves?
Do they want this information to come from me so that they can try and blackmail my dad with it later, paint me as a traitor of some sort so they can transport across my father’s, or, well, Bastian’s territories?
She has to know her asking me to offer up information about a member of my world is as direct as an insult can get. It tells me she sees me as weak or naive. Neither of which are correct.
I could simply tell them he’s a man with many friends, and a father with even more…my father being one of them, though that’s an intentional choice not one built on actual friendship, as most relationships are in this world. He may not have given the Mitchells what I’ve only learned Philip wanted, me at his side, but that’s not cause to share facts with strangers. It’s not enough for me to share with anyone. “What makes you think I would tell you anything?”
What makes Bastian think I have more information than he himself could share?
“Because we promise not to tell your fiancé.”
Maybe that shouldn’t piss me off, but it does. Who is she to assume I’m poison ivy in a field full of flowers?
I level her with a firm expression. “Whomever you’re getting your information from, and I really hope it’s not the man who owes Enzo his loyalty—” I cut a sharp glare toward Bastian. “—I have nothing to hide from my fiancé, in relation to a man as irrelevant as Philip Mitchell is to me, or any other. So, if that’s your sell, you’ll find no buyers here. The fact that you’re willing to come into his home, and make such a promise, only further confirms you’re not to be trusted.”