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That’s all that keeps my brain running at the moment.
I’m still reeling from too many big shitty revelations hitting at once.
The sick and twisted machinations Aleksander Arrendell has been playing at, this long game built up bit by bit, carves a piece out of me I’m not sure I’ll ever get back.
Seriously. What the hell?
From day one, I wondered what he saw in her. I never believed the fairy-tale lovey-dovey bullshit coming from this vampire playboy for a minute.
A man like Aleksander Arrendell with fantastically high standards and warped tastes doesn’t just up and decide to shack up with the small-town girl on a whim.
Now it makes sense, and it fucking hurts that it does.
Seducing his own half sister into a marriage just so he can get his rocks off?
Getting her hooked on drugs?
Setting a trap to break her for his own sick pleasure?
That’s what he’s after.
Unfathomable cruelty.
And considering his serial killer brother, I’ve got an ugly feeling a man like him won’t just stop at psychologically breaking a woman, either.
That makes me stomp the gas.
That drives me on, knowing it’s life and death and I can’t have their blood on my hands.
I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t make it in time to—
There!
I can see the water glinting through the buildings.
“Hold on tight,” I growl, throwing out a hand to steady Ophelia as I wrench the wheel.
The truck rockets around the sharpest turn yet, practically rearing up on two wheels.
I’m glad as hell I remember that tactical driving I did for Uncle Sam in my old Guard days.
She doesn’t make a sound when she’s so frozen silent, but she clutches my arm, staring ahead and straining toward the windshield like she can somehow lean into the momentum and guide us to them faster.
I stomp the gas again and the truck lurches forward, bouncing around the turn and onto the narrow road leading down to the docks.
Boats of all sizes line up along the quay like overgrown toys, everything from little speedboats to cargo barges to one big, sleek ship towering over the rest.
The yacht.
Then I see the tiny fingers wrestling against the railing.
Two men, one woman.
Goddammit, don’t tell me I’m too late.
“Ros!” Ophelia sees it too and screams, reaching out toward the windshield, right before one of the men—not Aleksander, but an older man in black—goes overboard.
I whip the truck into the lot and go tumbling out just as Aleksander drags Ros, kicking and struggling and shrieking, into the yacht’s wheelhouse.
