Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I knew he was unstable. Claire’s probably one of many women he’s put hands to. Damn, this could have been Kitty trapped in this room with him. I’d have already broken his neck by now if it was, consequences or not.
“Don’t talk down to me. Do you know who I am?” he seethes.
I don’t expect the asshole to remember who I am. Drugs have fried his brain. “Yeah, I do. Heard there are bodyguards looking for your bony ass.”
His eyes twitch as he shakes his head, frantic, manic, like he’s fighting the demons inside there. The kid has fucking issues. If he were anyone else, I’d take my blade and give him a permanent downward smile.
“I want another drink. Go get me one!” Picking up a tumbler from the pool table, he launches it toward me and Claire. I duck to avoid it striking me. It bounces off the wall and hits the floor with a clunk, skidding to a stop by the door without breaking.
Weak arms.
“You’re fucking crazy!” Claire screeches, hobbling on one leg. Pulling her high heel off, she throws it at him, hitting him in the forehead with the spike. A small red welt raises immediately. A pebble of blood swells and drips down his brow into his eyelashes. Fuck. I grab her before she can throw the other one and shake my head, warning her to back the fuck up.
Touching a hand to the small wound, his brow wrinkles. “Did you throw a shoe at me?”
“Claire, get out of here,” I command, but Nicolas rushes toward her, crashing into the wall of my body when I intercept him and stumbling back. He attempts to come at me, his fist raised pathetically. I laugh, shoving him away. “Calm the fuck down. You already have one wound too many.” Hopefully he won’t remember where it came from when he wakes up in the motel room surrounded by alcohol and drugs.
“Should I get Jericho?” Claire calls out from somewhere behind me. I don’t get to answer before the fucker comes at me again. He picks up a pool ball and chucks it toward me. It cracks off the side of my head as I turn, trying to avoid it. The impact sends a lightning zap through my skull, and the warm trickle of blood becomes a river, soaking my hair. Motherfucker.
“Stop it!” Claire’s voice rings through the air as another ball hits my chest. I catch the next one he throws, the solid sphere filling my palm, and launch the fucker back at him, cracking it off his skull.
“Hurts, doesn’t it, asshole?” I bark out, then immediately realize I fucked up. The kid sways, his eyes unfocused, a dent in the side of his head. He falls back as my feet take off to catch him. My fingers brush the fabric of his shirt, missing him by an inch. His skull thuds off the pool table, the sickening crunch slicing through the still air.
Silence.
I know before I even check for a pulse that he’s dead. I’m not sure if it was the snooker ball or the table…not that it matters.
FUCK.
Blood pools around his head. Wide, blown eyes from the massive amounts of drugs in his system peer up at the ceiling, his mouth stretched open in shock from the impact. Dropping to my knees, I start CPR, pumping his chest. This can’t be happening. He can’t be dead. My own blood drips like a tap, soaking into the white shirt, expanding like spilled ink.
“Is he dead?” Claire’s short, airy, panicked breath fills my ears.
This night can’t end like this.
Without hearing them arrive, Callan is at my side, pulling my hands away from the kid’s chest. “Cutter, look at me.”
My head is ringing. The room spins like a merry-go-round. Voices swim together. Fabric pushes against my head, and I’m on my feet, moving across the room. Something forces weight down on my shoulder, and I obey until I sit. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Callan’s face fills my vision. He places two digits in my eyeline.
“Two,” I breathe, my lungs feeling heavy. I reach up and take over, holding whatever is against my head. “It was an accident. The kid was relentless,” I puff out, shaking my head. A searing pain burns across my skull.
“We know, we caught the show on the camera. This is the worst-case scenario.” Callan moves away, running a hand across the back of his neck.
“Lock the door, Claire.” That voice is our Pres.
I’ve never thought much about dying. The reaper can come for you at any given time, especially in this life, but I’m young and a member of a club feared by most. Death seemed far off until his moment.
They’re going to have to hand me over to the Carnells.
Blood for blood.
It may not be enough. They’ll want Claire too. Or maybe a higher price. My eyes drag over Callan, pacing long strides back and forth. I’d rather take them all out on my own before letting Callan pay my debts with his life and turn this into a war. Kitty. Fuck—what about Kitty? If they find out she was the one who brought him here…I reach for the knife strapped at my ankle and get to my feet before I can even process the plan.