Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Dammit. I missed my window. I resign myself to defeat but fight back the tears. Even if these are my last moments breathing I refuse to let these bastards see me cry.
And then. A sound.
Not from inside the room. From outside the house. A low rumble. Like engines. My whole body freezes. The air around me feels tense. For one beat, no one breathes.
Then a voice somewhere down the hall, “You hear that?”
Boots shift on the floor around me. I want to slide the blindfold off but I don’t dare.
Engines again. Closer this time. Multiple. The hairs on my arms lift.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope gets you killed.
But it blooms anyway, bright and desperate, because I know that sound. I don’t even have to see him.
I know the road carries like cells in Miles’ blood the way nursing runs in mine.
Another rumble. Then the sharp crack of something hitting the front door. A shout. Men moving fast in the hallway, boots pounding. A chair scraping. A curse.
My pulse spikes so hard my vision blurs as I use the wall to slide the blindfold off my eyes.
Duke’s eyes open wider, fear or pain or both. The president’s hand drops to his belt.
“Stay,” he snaps at me like I’m a dog. “Don’t move.”
As if I could. As if my entire body isn’t a spring wound tight.
A gunshot cracks somewhere in the house. I flinch violently, hands jerking toward my face.
Duke’s body makes a thud as the President who was so determined to keep him alive puts a bullet in his head.
Another shout—different voice, deeper, furious.
Not one of them. No I know this voice. My heart slams against my ribs.
Miles.
It has to be. The world becomes sound and motion.
Men yelling. Feet running. A door slamming. Something crashing into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the picture frames.
The president steps into the hall, barking orders I can’t fully make out.
One of the men in the room with me lifts his gun toward the doorway, hands shaking now, not so confident anymore.
“Get her,” someone shouts from down the hall. “She’s in the back!”
The man with the gun turns his head toward me like I’m suddenly worth more alive than dead.
My breath catches.
He takes one step forward—And then the bedroom door explodes inward.
Not literally—no fire, no blast—but it slams open so hard it bangs against the wall, and a body fills the frame.
Leather.
A cut.
A man built from anger and miles.
Dixon “Miles” Hardison stands before me a man with fury in his face.
For half a second, time stops. His eyes find mine like a lock clicking into place.
The look on his face is a storm.
Fear.
Relief.
Pure, murderous rage.
And love so fierce it makes my chest ache.
He doesn’t speak.
He moves.
Fast.
The man with the gun raises it—Miles is already on him, knocking the gun hand up and away with one brutal motion, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest.
They slam into the dresser.
The gun skitters across the floor.
A second later Smoke is there—Smoke, like a shadow made of violence—kicking the gun farther away, pulling the man off balance, pinning him.
Everything is loud.
Everything is fast.
My hands fly to my mouth, but I force myself not to scream. Miles turns toward me, chest heaving, eyes wild.
“Danae.”
My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a threat. I nod frantically, tears blurring my vision. “I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
He crosses the room in three strides, grabbing my shoulders, his hands shaking as they sweep over me like he’s checking for injuries without thinking.
“Are you hurt?” he demands.
My voice comes out broken. “No. My wrists—just—”
His eyes drop to the marks, and something in him snaps even further.
I can feel it.
The leash on his rage comes undone.
Smoke says something behind him—low, urgent. “We gotta move. Cops enroute.”
Miles doesn’t look away from me as he takes a knife to my restraints, releasing me. “Can you walk?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He reaches for my hands, then stops like he’s afraid he’ll hurt me.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Okay. We’re going home.”
Home.
The word hits me so hard my knees wobble.
I grab his cut like it’s the only solid thing in the universe. “Miles,” I whisper, because I need him to be real.
His eyes soften for the first time since he came through that door. He leans down pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve got you, baby. Never letting go.”
Outside the room, the house is chaos.
Men shouting. Furniture knocked over. A lamp shattered on the floor. The smell of gunpowder sharp in the air.
Smoke grips my elbow, guiding me, protective in a way I don’t expect.
“Head down,” he mutters. “Don’t look.”
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see blood. I don’t want to see any faces that will live in my nightmares. So I keep my eyes on Miles’ back, on the shape of him moving through the hallway like a force of nature.