Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
That they can patch me up later?
Maybe it’ll be fatal, but at least The Kid and Bunny and our son will live.
At least they’ll be safe.
At least they’ll live on.
Have each other.
“November…” calmly escapes as I prepare to execute the plan.
“Affirmative,” he states, clearly aware of what I’m planning to do. “On your mark.”
“N-” is surprisingly all that escapes.
Rapid, aimless gunfire, unpredictably rips through the morning sky, clipping trees.
Posts.
Abandoned tools.
But…not a single person.
The noise successfully distracts the adversary, which Rabbit doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of.
One harsh headbutt backwards catches the man off guard causing him to release her and stumble backwards. Her swift dive out of the way presents November with the perfect chance to execute a kill shot.
And he does.
Completely unphased by the commotion, he unloads a single bullet into the side of the male’s head, instantly dropping him to the ground.
“I’ll insure the threat is secure,” he proclaims at the same time he cautiously approaches what I’m pretty sure is a dead body. “Evaluate our target.”
“Our girl,” Kid airily corrects during his rush cover.
“Our woman,” I echo, my steps as speedy as his.
Our frantic and feral motions don’t cease despite the slippery patches.
Or the slush piles from where the ice has started to melt.
Or the frozen animal shit that crunches loudly under our boots.
No.
Nothing stops us from getting to her and falling to our knees the instant she’s within reach.
“You good, Rabbit?!” Paranoid patting is attached to my aggressive visual searching. “You shot?! Baby shot?! Anything broken?!”
Kid’s hands promptly recheck all the areas I just finished. “You okay, baby?!” His scanning is just as panicked as mine. “You feel okay?! Our baby okay?! You gonna be okay?!”
She lovingly places an ice-cold palm on each of our cheeks to aid in her reassurance. “I’m okay.” Her fingers sweetly flex, and it’s impossible not to momentarily lean into them. “We’re. Okay.”
“Thankfuck,” is grittily grumbled.
“You sure?” Kid anxiously inquires. “You sure, sure?” His face nestles into her grip. “Like make ten sequels sure?”
The light laugh she presents successfully warms me in ways only they can.
Between the car shit he says and the beautiful sounds she makes I know everything will be alright.
I know we’ll be alright.
As long as we have each other, as long as we’re in this shit storm and any other together, we’ll survive.
No matter what comes at us.
“We all know that franchise did not need ten sequels, Kid.” A loving pat is delivered to his face. “Everyone except you.”
“You might be concussed,” he playfully pokes prior to helping her onto her feet.
“You can’t even spell concussed,” I lovingly tease, doing my best to ignore Little November kicking the corpse around to verify its lifelessness.
“And neither can you, Mutt, but we still love you.”
The sound of my name combined with the feeling of her in our arms stuns me silent.
It’s more important to hear her and feel her than it is to correct her.
Besides.
I’ll spank it out of her later.
Safehouse first.
Slapping that ass second.
Retrieving her ring from my pocket barely precedes me hastily sliding it rightfully back onto her hand. “Kid always has to wear his. You have to always wear yours.”
An almost blood sugar spiking smile is presented as she gives the object a loving squeeze. “Understood.”
“No fight?” My brows skeptically twitch. “Kid’s right. You might be concussed.”
“Concuss my left tit, Grandpa Turismo.”
“There’s our woman,” cheekily precedes me catching our fiancé wincing. “Careful, Kid.” I adjust myself to hold more of Rabbit’s weight. “Those ribs are still fucked.”
“What happened to your ribs?!”
“That asshole Brax is kicking,” he casually informs.
“Brax?”
“Braxton November,” our support warmly introduces upon his arrival to us. “Happy to be a part of your rescue team, ma’am.”
“Ugh,” groans the beautiful woman we’re wrapped around, “please don’t call me ma’am.”
“She’s got a weird thing about her age,” Kid impishly explains.
“Only because neither of you were born when Blink 182 was singing about it.”
Their small chuckles are cut short courtesy of Post shouting, “Overhere!”
Reworking our course to meet him closer to the stable Bunny was dragged from reveals to us the unfathomable identity of our interference runner.
“He’s been hit,” Post announces, hand doing its best to apply pressure to where the bullet got him earlier. “I took out the guy, but I was too late.”
Rabbit attempts to peel herself out of our grip only to be met with reluctance.
No.
Fuck.
No.
I’m not letting her near this fuckface or that soul sucking puppet master he calls his wife ever again.
Rather than verbally insist that she’s fine, she gently strokes each of our backs and gives them the same pat she gave to our faces only minutes ago.
Afterward, she untangles herself and transitions to McAdams’s side.
He struggles to smile through the pain when he says, “I’m glad I could help save you again.”
“Again?” Kid and I question together.
“He…” the mother of our child gingerly wraps her hands around his to hold, “he helped me escape the first time around.”