Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
And, as time went on, Zeus said I was his peace in the chaos that was his life. I was his little dove.
And I believed him.
Until he decided he no longer needed his dove, and he stripped me of my wings and left me to die.
But I didn’t die, and I got my wings back, too.
So, fuck you, Zeus.
“Hey…I know you.” Handsy Asshole stares up at Zeus, pointing his finger at him.
Handsy isn’t small by any means of the word. Probably about five-eleven at a guess, but Zeus is bigger. Half a foot bigger to be exact. Six foot five and built of solid muscle.
And that’s why he’s the current heavyweight champion boxer of the world. That, and his God-given talent to hurt people. Most of the time, he doesn’t even have to hit people to hurt them.
I’m living proof right here.
“Yeah, I know you. You’re Zeus Kincaid, right? Holy shit! You are! I can’t fucking believe it! Zeus fucking Kincaid. Dude, you’re amazing! I won two Gs on your last fight. Hey, can I get a picture? My buddies aren’t gonna believe this!”
Tearing my eyes from Zeus, I don’t wait around to listen to his response. I use it as an opportunity to get the hell out of there.
Moving swiftly, I push up to stand, and I run down the steps off the podium. I quickly start making my way through the crowd, heading straight for the staff room.
My heart is pounding, my mind racing, and my feet can’t move fast enough to get me out of there and away from Zeus.
I can’t believe he’s here.
I’m about ten steps away from the staff door, almost home free, when a hand curls around my biceps, bringing me to a stop.
I don’t have to turn around to know who it is.
I tilt my face in Zeus’s direction, tipping my head back to stare up into his face. I’m five nine—five eleven in my boots. Not short for a woman, but Zeus has always made me feel small.
I used to love that feeling.
Now, I hate it.
“What are you doing here?”
What am I doing here? That’s it? That’s all he has to say to me after five years of silence?
Not, Did we have a boy or a girl? Or, How is my kid doing?
God, I hate him.
I stare at him, wondering how I ever loved this man.
Zeus was always beautiful; there’s never been any doubt about that. In the early days of his career, the press dubbed him The Pretty Boy of Boxing. I remember how much he hated that nickname. Nowadays, they call him The God.
I think he’s The Devil.
But he’s no longer the pretty-boy beautiful he was back then.
Now, he’s ruggedly handsome. Even with the too-many-times broken nose and the scar that cuts through his eyebrow. I remember the fight in which he got that scar. It was over me. He still has his trademark stubble on his cheeks, which I know is actually softer to the touch than it looks. And his dark hair, which he always wore shaved, is now styled—still short at the sides but longer on top.
And his eyes…they were the first things I noticed about him. If I had to give them a color, I’d say azure. The bluest of blue. Eyes with the depths of the ocean. You stare into them, and they give away nothing but make you feel everything.
He might be physically stunning to look at, but inside of him is a totally different story.
He steps closer. His scent washes over me—familiar yet unfamiliar. He’s changed his aftershave. He always used to wear Burberry Touch. It was my favorite aftershave. I used to buy it for him.
I guess he rid himself of everything that was me.
Including his child.
Something akin to a knife sticks in my heart.
“Dove, I asked you a question. What are you doing here?” His grip on my arm increases, his brows pulling together in frustration.
I see a hint of anger in his eyes. And it sparks me back to life.
He has the gall to demand an answer from me after what he’s done?
Fuck. That.
I want to spit on him in disgust. But I don’t. I keep my dignity—unlike the last time we spoke five years ago.
I fill my eyes with the contempt I feel for him, years’ worth of hate and anger, and I grind out, “Don’t call me that. My name is Cam. And what do you think I’m doing? I’m working, asshole.”
I yank my arm from his hand and hurry to the staff room door. I punch in the code on the keypad, unlocking the door. I rush through it, letting it close behind me, to the sound of his voice calling my name.
Hands still shaking, I turn the key in the ignition, and my Toyota comes to life. Halsey’s “Eyes Closed” bleeds out of the stereo. I drive out of the club’s staff parking lot and start the hour journey home to Port Washington—to the home I share with Gigi and Aunt Elle. Technically, I still live at home, as it’s Aunt Elle’s house.