Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I haven’t even twirled around the pole once when a group of men crowds in too close. They’re loud and heavy-handed while attempting to stuff bills into my lingerie, which is still concealed by my dress.
I try to tease them back into their seats with the playful finger wiggle I give while performing the naughty teacher routine, but they continue to surge forward. Fingers grope my legs, arms, and waist as they attempt to fast-forward my routine to the strip tease part of my performance.
Every time I push one man back, another takes his place. Their laughter grows uglier when one brute tears my dress off my body, their intentions clear.
This was a mistake.
A terrible, stupid mistake.
Fear snakes up my spine, icy and paralyzing, when one man clamps my wrist hard enough to bruise. I yank away from him, but he lunges, and suddenly ten more surround me. The music pounds in my ears as fear that I might be hurt tonight in ways I’d rather not imagine filters through the fog.
“No!” I shout, pushing back.
Imaginary birds fly around my head when an elbow collides with my nose, stunning me so well that I freeze long enough to be pinned to the makeshift dance floor.
“Stop! No!” I scream as dozens of fingers grope, jab, and bruise me.
As two men hold my shoulders down, and another two anchor my ankles to the dance floor, I glance in the direction of the door I pranced through only minutes ago, searching for help.
The hostess is where I left her, smirking like this was the plan all along.
I’ve never hated someone on sight, but I can unequivocally say I hate her.
She has no clue what she’s doing. Not only is she staging a gangrape, but she’s also leaving my son defenseless to a world as corrupt as her morals.
I won’t mention who else flashes through my head, or I’ll hate myself even more than I already do.
Even with blood threatening to drip from my nose and terror clawing my throat, I continue to fight. I thrash against the hands pinning my legs, and roar no on repeat.
When one leg is freed, I smash my foot into the face of the man fumbling with his belt. He stumbles back with a groan before his tattooed hand shoots up to capture the blood staining his seedy porn stache.
He glares at me like he hates me.
The feeling is mutual.
“You fucking bitch. I was going to get this over quickly for you, but now I’m going to take my time with—”
Everything stops when the light in his eyes disintegrates in less than a nanosecond.
He slumps to the floor with a thud, his expression as lifeless as the uncomfortable fold of his body.
I dart my eyes to the left when a crash follows the panicked shriek of a woman in fear. The hostess is on her knees, begging to be spared. A man with inky-black hair and eyes as dark as death pays her pleas no attention. He takes her out with a direct kill shot to the head, ending her life as swiftly as someone did the groom’s.
Then, just as fast, the man holding my right ankle gargles through the blood flooding his esophagus from the large gash running from one ear to the next.
I know who’s standing behind him before my vision clears enough to see through the madness.
I can sense him.
Every line of Dante’s face is carved with fury as he and the four men behind him move through the room with the tenacity of a storm breaking loose.
The drunk men barely have time to react before a brutal fight erupts.
It’s fast and violent. Bodies slam into tables, glass shatters, and more than fists fly.
One of the men who arrived with Dante swings a baseball bat like he’s in the batter’s box, seeking a homerun.
Even though Dante and the men I assume are his brothers, since they have similar features, are outnumbered one to twenty, they gain the advantage almost instantly. They bring the room to heel brutally and bloodily, like they’ve been waiting for the prime excuse to unleash hell on these men.
I don’t have time for an official head count before Dante reaches me. After draping his blood-dotted jacket over my trembling thighs and chest, he gathers me in his arms. His hold isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough to announce how much adrenaline he still has left to disperse.
Don’t get me started on his raging heart. It’s pumping with a fury I’m not sure even a complete massacre could subdue.
As he carries me through the chaos without a hint of strain on his face, I cling to him. My fingers curl around his crinkled dress shirt as my lungs fight for oxygen. I’m so shaken that my breaths aren’t visible in the cool night air when he pushes through the back door of the residence and heads to the first SUV in a line of many.