Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
The back of my brain registers that the curses flying out of their mouths come with British accents. Fancy that. I’m being assaulted by the Spice Boys.
I’m still in full feral-cat mode when another man appears out of nowhere. He’s limping heavily with a gold-topped cane and lifts his other hand like he’s the goddamn king, all regal authority.
“Stop. Don’t hurt her.” His voice is smooth and polished with the kind of accent that’s less London-street and more I-own-an-obscene-number-of-horses. “I only want to chat.”
Chat? Oh, is that what we’re calling kidnapping these days?
The distraction is enough for me to pause mid-kick and squint at the new guy. He’s older—mid-to-late sixties, I’d guess—dressed like he walked straight out of an overpriced men’s catalog. Tailored suit, polished shoes, not a hair out of place. But the fucker is pale and gaunt and giving real consumption-chic.
“What the fuck do you want?” I spit, still twisting like I’m auditioning for the world’s angriest interpretive dance.
He steps closer, leaning calmly on his cane like this is a TED Talk and not, you know, an abduction.
“My son,” he says smoothly. “Bane.”
Wait. WHAT? It’s like someone yanked the emergency brake in my brain.
Bane?
I freeze for half a second, but it’s enough. I snap back to reality with a growl, whipping my head toward the guy gripping my right arm.
“LET. ME. GO!” I snarl, punctuating each word with another vicious kick.
When words don’t work, I go primal—I bend down and bite him. Again. On the forearm this time. I’m an equal opportunity biter.
The brute roars, yanking his arm back. His other hand shoots up like he’s about to clock me.
But Mr. Fancy Suit raises a hand, his voice cool as ice. “That’s enough, Billy.”
Billy—because, of course, his name is Billy—growls but steps back. His buddy releases me, too. But when I try to make a break for it, Billy grabs me around the waist like I’m a particularly difficult suitcase. He lifts me off the ground, carries me three steps, and unceremoniously drops me right in front of Bane’s father.
I let out a guttural scream—not words, just pure rage-fueled noise—and glare up at the smug bastard.
“What the FUCK is this?!” I snarl, my voice echoing off the nearby buildings.
“A conversation,” he says with the kind of grim patience people use when explaining things to toddlers—or women they’ve just had abducted off the side of the street, apparently. He pulls a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at his face, wiping away the spittle I didn’t intend but am honestly proud of.
“The shorter, the better, if you’d stand still for a moment.”
“Oh, fine,” I hiss, dragging out the F just enough to spit again because why not double down?
His jaw tightens, but he smooths it over with condescending British calm.
“I should’ve known my son would continue his rebellion by taking up with someone so… completely unsuitable.”
“Who the fuck are you, anyway? An anal-retentive dick in a suit? Got it.”
He squares his shoulders, standing taller like that’s supposed to intimidate me. “I’m one of the most respected men in the world, young lady. And you’d do well to watch your tongue if you don’t want these men to cut it out.”
I blink, then slowly look around. “We’re on a public street, genius. There are cameras.”
He smiles. Not a warm smile—a predatory one. “They’ll have all conveniently gone out for these few minutes.”
Great. Love that for me.
“So let me get down to it,” he continues, pulling out a literal checkbook. Like this is 1997. “What will it cost me for you to leave my son be?”
I actually laugh. Right in his face. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I’m quite serious.”
He scribbles something on the check. “Will a million do it?”
I blink. Then scoff. “You really are one jaded motherfucker. Don’t you want your son to be happy?”
His expression flattens, deadpan. “I highly doubt the daughter of a whore from nowhere, Ireland—who grew up to be a sex addict, no less—could make my son happy.”
Oof. That one lands like a punch to the gut, but I swallow it down.
“Two million,” he bites out.
I jab my finger in his face. “You can take your money and shove it up your ass.”
“Fifty million.”
I laugh, shaking my head. That’s how much my brother paid when Anna auctioned off her virginity.
“If you know so much about me, then you know I’ve already got a billionaire brother. I don’t need your filthy money.”
“A billionaire brother who’s not speaking to you.” He gets right in my face, eyes burning. “You live in such a pretty penthouse, but what happens when he stops paying your rent? And stops paying for your fancy car? Or did he already, and that’s why you’re taking public transit like the provincial you really are?”
I toss my hands up, smiling wildly. “I guess I’ll finally have to get off my ass and get a job.”