Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Absurd. Sequins and rhinestones in a filthy kitchen. But there’s nothing funny about the fury boiling in my chest.
“Fuck you,” the asshole mutters and yanks Ella tight against him like she’s his property.
That’s it.
I move before he can blink and grab his beefy wrist. The bone snaps in my grip, breaking with a sharp crack. He screams, high and panicked, and Ella tears free. I shove her behind me, never taking my eyes off him.
He staggers, clutching his useless hand, and swings with the other. Pathetic. I catch his arm, drive my knife up under his ribs, and push until his mouth opens in a wet gasp. His eyes go wide, confused. He didn’t see me go for one of my knives.
No words. No warning.
The blade slides free and his knees buckle. He crashes to the filthy linoleum, bottles rolling across the floor, blood soaking through his stained shirt.
The only sounds are the storm pounding the roof, the dog still barking outside, and Ella’s sharp breath behind me.
I wipe the blade clean on his shirt and straighten. Cold rage still burns steady in my chest, but the job’s done. He won’t touch her—or anyone—again. Blood spreads fast, mixing with the grime already ground into the linoleum.
Behind me, she inhales sharp and quick. Tennis shoes, one blue and one purple, scrape against the tile as she backs away.
“Justice …” Her voice shakes once, then steadies with sheer will. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
I turn just enough to see her, the cowboy hat tipped low, sequins catching the weak light. She looks furious, but her eyes—wide, startled—betray her.
She doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t.
The man touched her. He doesn’t get to breathe after that. Neither of us needs to question the why of that. Not right now, anyway. Seeing that scum try to hurt her had awakened something primal in me.
Something I don’t want.
Rain pounds the roof. The dog outside thrashes against the chain, barking hoarse. I slip the blade back into its sheath, the motion automatic, my pulse already steadying.
“He laid hands on you,” I say, my tone flat. “That was enough.” I’ll have someone burn this entire place to the ground once I get her to safety.
Her mouth opens, then shuts. She shakes her head, hat dripping water onto the floor, and takes another step back. Shock rolls off her in waves, but I don’t move toward her. Not yet. She needs space to realize what kind of man I am.
What kind of man she’s facing.
The storm hasn’t let up. She turns and runs out of the back kitchen door. Curious, I follow her. Does she actually think she can escape me?
Again?
Rain sheets sideways, hammering the sagging porch as we step outside. The door bangs against the wall behind me, left open to the stink of booze and blood.
Ella doesn’t look back. She pulls the hat lower, her sequined jacket dripping like a beacon in the dark, and heads toward the sound of the chain. She’s pale, lips pressed thin, but her stride doesn’t falter.
Why is she wearing a bedazzled jacket and cowboy hat? If she wanted to disguise herself, she failed.
She’s still in shock. I can see it in the tremor of her hands, the stiffness in her spine. I killed a man for laying hands on her, and she doesn’t know what to do with that truth.
The dog knows we’re coming. He barks, raw and hoarse, yanking against the chain. When we round the corner of the house, he’s all teeth and fury, ribs showing through wet fur. A metal collar digs into his neck, too tight, rust flaking under the strain. He looks to be part Rottweiler and maybe something else. Too skinny.
Ella stops short. Water runs off the brim of her hat, down her pale face. She lifts her chin, but she doesn’t take another step.
“Let’s go,” I tell her, keeping my voice even.
She flicks a glance at me, defiant even now. Her fists clench at her sides. The rain drills her, sliding down the feminine angles of her pixie-like face. “I’ll make you a deal.”
I ignore the rain smashing on me, intrigued. “Go on?”
“We work together for today. It’s obvious you want something from me. I’ll give it to you if you help me.” Her eyes are so blue, something in my chest hurts. Hard. And her words cause more pain—right to my cock. She’ll give it to me?
“What if I want you dead?”
She rolls her eyes. Actually rolls her fucking eyes. “Then I’d already be dead.”
Yeah, she’s not wrong.
She lifts a hand in the rain, toward me, before I can argue. “I know. You probably do have plans to kill me at some point, but right now, you need something from me. We were going somewhere last night, so I figure you need computer help. I am the best.” She shrugs, looking ridiculous and uncomfortably appealing in the sparkling jacket.