Total pages in book: 15
Estimated words: 14237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 71(@200wpm)___ 57(@250wpm)___ 47(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 14237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 71(@200wpm)___ 57(@250wpm)___ 47(@300wpm)
I would protect them financially.
I would atone for what my father had done to them but…under no circumstances were they to tell their children about me or my family.
I had enough shit to deal with without impromptu sibling reunions.
“He has an English accent, but he spoke French to me,” Suzette replied.
“Age?” I shot a look at the closed doors to the library. The glass wasn’t opaqued and I could see a shadow of someone standing by the limited edition leather bound classics by the fireplace.
“I’m guessing late twenties? Maybe a bit younger?”
Fuck.
He would’ve been one of the older ones in my father’s stable then.
Did he remember living here?
Did he remember me marching into the midst of them, covered in patriarchal blood, gun in hand, and leading a trail of broken women to claim their bastards?
My hand shook a little as I shoved it into my pocket and spun on my heel. Tess appeared at the top of the stairs. The same stairs I’d stood on when Franco pushed her over my doorstep and commanded her to kneel before me.
She’d refused then and she’d refused me ever since.
Pity for both of us, her refusals got me hard and her wet and we’d become a match made in fucked-up heaven.
“You.” I pointed a finger at her. “Stay there. I need to do this on my own.” My eyes narrowed and I added a tad more gently, like a doting lover should, “We’ll finish our conversation after.”
Her lips quirked. “Conversation, huh? Very well, I very much look forward to conversing with you, husband.”
My palm itched to remind her of her place all while I fought the lust and darkly tangled love she always drowned me in. “Behave and obey, Tess. Don’t interrupt.”
Stalking to the library, I wrenched open the double doors, and came face-to-face with my half-brother.
One of many.
Hopefully, the only one who would ever know of my existence.
He was tall.
Maybe a shade taller than me.
Broad shouldered and lean waisted, with the type of physique that said he’d been in a few fights in his time and won.
He spun around as I closed the doors behind me and flicked the switch for privacy. The glass instantly went dark, blocking my nosy wife’s eyes, giving me time to assess this new threat.
Because he was a threat.
A big one.
Motherfucking huge.
I’d chosen my family.
I didn’t want any more springing from the shadows.
Especially ones with my father’s blood running in their veins.
I had firsthand knowledge of that curse.
The Mercer Curse that’d been passed down by a man who raped, mutilated, and abused. I wouldn’t will it on anyone. And I had every intention of avoiding all those who shared it because chances were very fucking high that I’d have to kill them for the very reasons I strived to deserve to live.
I hunted monsters.
I killed paedophiles and tore out the hearts of traffickers.
I made others hurt, all while the one person who should hurt the most was me.
The moment our gazes locked, he froze.
Grey eyes.
Stern mouth.
Stare of a beast.
He shared my unfortunate sharp widow’s peak, same short dark hair, same five o’clock shadow that refused to be tamed by a razor, no matter how many times I shaved.
His jaw he’d inherited from our sadistic father, his cheekbones from an unfamiliar slave. His brows furrowed, casting his eyes in deeper shadows. His fists curled, matching mine, sensing my unwelcome without saying a word.
Neither of us spoke for the longest moment. Both assessing. Both forming conclusions on faces alone.
Finally, he said, “Elle disait la verité.” (She was telling the truth.)
I stiffened. Who was telling the truth? His mother? Some woman I’d done my best to protect, even at a personal cost?
“Je suis désolé.” (I’m sorry.) He tipped his chin, fighting for social etiquette. “Je suis désolé de faire irruption comme ça mais… je n’avais pas le choix.” (I’m sorry to barge in like this but…I didn’t have a choice.)
Suzette was right. His French was impeccable, but the faintest English accent lurked beneath. Which slave was he whelped to? Which one broke her promise and told him about me?
A headache bloomed in my temples as I tried to recall the numerous women my father kept. Some from Asia, some from Europe, others from far off continents. There’d been a couple from the United Kingdom but not many.
Prowling forward, I did my best to keep my voice civil. “You may speak in English.”
“Okay…” He never took his eyes off me as I chose one of the matching wingbacks and sat stiffly. Copying me, he took the other chair, our bodies facing one another, the empty fireplace full of shadows. “I, eh…there’s no easy way to say this so—”
“You’re the son of a slave. She told you about your origins and that my father was the cunt who created you. Am I correct?”