Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Because I don’t find dangerous men attractive. At all.
I’ve met enough of them to know they’re the scum of the earth.
Jude Callahan’s stoic face, rigid personality, and weapon of a body shouldn’t be at the forefront of my mind.
The afternoon air is cool against my skin, the hum of traffic merging with the rhythm of my footsteps against the cracked sidewalk. The streetlights’ shadows cast long figures in the afternoon sun that stretch and curl like grasping hands as I walk past them, my mind focused on what I’m going to cook for dinner.
I have several hours before my shift, so maybe I’ll make Dahlia lasagna. She always says it’s my signature dish and usually finishes a few servings in one night.
I balance the weight of my backpack slung over one shoulder. I have to find fresh meat, even if it’s a small quantity and…
The roar of an engine splits the quiet.
I barely register it when a black van speeds toward the sidewalk.
No—it’s rushing toward me.
It surges forward, tires screeching against the asphalt coming fast. Too fast.
I’m frozen in place, waiting for the death I’ve often spoken to before bed.
In a blur of motion, something lunges toward me—Mario—slamming into my side. Hard.
I hit the ground, out of the van’s path. Hot, burning pain lances through me as my knees scrape against concrete, my breath shattering in my lungs.
And I watch with my mouth agape as Mario spins, reaching for his gun—
Another roar cuts through the traffic. This time, from the opposite direction.
The van does a U-turn in the distance as a motorcycle tears down the street, a faceless figure clad in black behind the handlebars.
Crack!
The gunshot rings out, and I flinch, pulling away on unsteady knees toward the wall for cover.
Crack!
Mario jerks, his shoulder snapping backward, his balance faltering as the rider speeds past, disappearing down the street.
He’s hit.
Mario’s hit!
My breath comes in short, shallow bursts as I stand up and scramble forward, my legs trembling, blood dripping down my knees from where my skin met the asphalt.
Mario stumbles as the van speeds toward us again.
I don’t think as I shove him out of the way and then slam against the wall and slide to the ground from the impact.
A rush of air whips past me as the van swerves, nearly hitting us.
The world slows.
Then speeds up all at once.
The tires shriek against the asphalt as it peels away, disappearing around the corner as fast as it came.
It’s over.
Are they…gone?
My hands tremble as I push myself up, my chest heaving, the adrenaline leaving a metallic taste on my tongue. My knees sting, but my gaze snaps to Mario, who’s standing with his eyes narrowed on where the van and motorcycle disappeared as he sheathes his gun.
“Oh my God—your arm.”
It’s bleeding, a deep, angry wound blossoming across his upper arm, staining his jacket. His face is set in stone as he presses a hand to it.
I dig into my bag, my hands shaking, rummaging, searching—
My fingers wrap around the bottle of pills, and I offer a couple to him. “They’re not much, but they might help with the pain.” My voice wavers, my pulse wild. “You should go to the hospital.”
Mario stares at me, then at the pills.
For a second, I think he won’t take them.
But he snatches them from my hand and swallows them dry.
A brief pause. A shift in the air.
Now that I’m looking closely at him, Mario seems younger than I initially assumed. His black hair is damp with sweat, and his lips are slightly pale.
“Thanks.” His rough and unused voice rips through the air, speaking the only word he’s ever said to me.
It’s so unexpected that my lips twitch in a smile before I can stop them. “Don’t mention it. You saved me as well.”
He keeps staring, not saying anything.
“Do you need my help with going to the hospital…?”
He says nothing, just types on his phone with one hand.
“Are we back to silence now? Got it. So much for worrying.” I bend over and grab my books.
When I straighten, Mario’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. “You should be more worried about why professional killers shot at you.”
“P-professional killers? Why?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” He squints more. “Who have you pissed off so much that they’d hire professional killers to eliminate you?”
“Aside from your boss? No one.” My nails dig into the books. “Isn’t this one of his sick games?”
Mario says nothing. A few moments later, a car with tinted windows rolls to a halt beside us, and I jerk back, the remnants of the adrenaline buzzing in my blood.
But then Mario opens the back door, his arm still dripping with blood, and tells me, “Get in.”
“No.”
“Please get in so I can drop you off and go get treated, Violet.”
“I can go home on my own—”
“Out of the question. Not when someone is out for your life. Jude would kill me if he knew I left you on the street after what just happened.”