Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
I love being home.
The first message I see when I turn on my phone is from Nate.
Your mother has the keys to your new apartment. Enjoy your time with them while you can, because once you’re back, you’re back.
I tap out of his message, lowering myself down onto one of the bubble stools beneath the kitchen bar while finding Instagram. He’s giving me until I head back for the show, so I won’t reply until then.
“You changing all of”—she waves her long, black manicured fingernail at me—“that?”
My thumb hovers over my Instagram profile. “No one knew I even had this.”
She leans her forearms on the counter, her shifty eyes meeting mine behind the glass of her—“Vodka?”
I giggle, swooping up my own and lifting it to my lips. “Okay fine. But just so you know, I have tried this before.”
She shoots hers back and chases it with her tongue to clean up the residue on her bottom lip. “Oh, honey, I know! You are your mother’s daughter.” She winks before turning and tying up an apron.
The words hang around in my mind. You are your mother’s daughter.
It’s the first time she’s ever said that to me—or anyone has ever said that to me. People have always said that I take after both my dads, but more like Kyrin. Having two never confuses people, because I don’t surround myself with anyone who has to second-guess the concept of love being as simple as…love. No matter how many. Just so happens my mom fell in love with two men.
Two very different men.
Eli, my, I guess you could say is my paternal father, and Kyrin, my other father. Eli Rebellis, Rebel of the Elite Kings Club, and Kyrin Nero, a Brother of Kiznitch with Midnight Mayhem, and well, my mom.
Who turned out to be a hell of a lot scarier than either of my notorious fathers.
Scary parent math.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, still deciding what to do with Instagram. I could delete it and start a new one, but I’ve had it for so long and the content I’d shared had helped me along the way. Some of it anyway.
If they did stumble across me on here, people can know who I am now since I’ve graduated. Do I want my footprint known on social media, though? All my content up to this date has been simple. Reels of something random on my weekends out and about. Even a random waterfall I’d found mid-run, deep in the mountains on Perdita where the waters run a translucent shade of pink.
I never thought much into what I was posting. I’d never shared my face, just simple reels the same time every weekend for years. Between that and the mystery, it gained me a following, which in turn only made me more nervous to never share. I value my privacy more than I want attention. Since I am currently up to three million followers.
Some liked the peaceful nature I’d post.
Some loved the captions.
But the main reason for the followers is people think I’ve been kidnapped, and my posts are a cry for help. Like leaving a scattering of breadcrumbs, they think I need rescuing.
I never corrected them because why? I didn’t care for this account because I always assumed I’d delete it once I was out.
But now?
I shoot back my vodka, clenching my teeth when it hits my throat. “Yes, but can we make it something smoother next time? Maybe whiskey?” It’s a joke, but when she pauses with the spatula in her hand, I know I’ve said something wrong. “What?”
She relaxes, turning to face me with a wide smile, one that flashes all her teeth. “Nothing! And tacos, since they were your favorite and since you’re leaving us again in less than three days to go and be”—she waves her hands—“who you’re supposed to be. It’s only fitting.”
I swipe out of Instagram. I’ll keep it. Screw it. I might even add a profile photo now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
priest
There are parts of this life that I don’t understand. Like apparently everyone seated around this table are the most powerful people in the world. In this entire spectrum that we call world, it comes down to these five people and their organizations. Call it the Illuminati or a cult.
Everyone who suspects it is almost always on track. No, you’re not imagining it, and yes, there is a higher power. The tinfoil hat jokes only exist because we’ve planted people out there to doubt you.
Personally, I don’t give enough of a fuck to know about these particular families or how they’ve become who they are, I just know that the person sitting in front of me right now has an eye problem.
I lean forward, and Archer Thorn stops talking.
Flicking my ash in the tray, I gesture for him to continue.
It’s my first gathering. They’re on edge.