Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
My ears started to ring as I sprinted faster.
And when I got close enough to see the blood, my heart lurched up toward my throat.
“No,” I tried to say, but no sound came out.
I ran up to Draven, finding him collapsed on his knees, blood spilling from the side of his body.
“The motherfucker,” Draven was growling, but it was clear he wasn’t himself.
He was losing blood.
More blood than I’d ever seen outside of a TV show.
I pulled the shirt off my body and pressed it to the side of his body where the blood was pooling, holding it tight against him.
The attacker’s figure was far off, now. I could hear him repeating things, saying something as he walked away, but none of it sounded like it made sense. His vehicle was a little further down the road, past the gate.
A light blue sedan.
“Don’t go anywhere near him,” Draven murmured at me, looking up at me like he was struggling to even keep his eyes open. “Had a knife. Fucking piece of shit had a knife that wasn’t even sharp—”
“No, no, no,” I repeated over and over again.
The shirt in my hands started to feel fuller, warmer, heavy with blood. Draven coughed, then groaned as if the cough had hurt him even more.
“The guy told me you’re not Max, right before he pulled out that… that stupid fucking knife and stabbed me,” Draven said, attempting to laugh. “I told him I’d rip his throat out with my bare hands before I ever let him get to you.”
His body faltered a little on the ground and he collapsed backward, lying down sideways on the dirt instead of being able to sit on his knees anymore.
“Draven,” I pleaded, pressing my shirt back up against his wound.
“I’ll be able to stand up in a minute. Just give me a minute. I’m not letting him get away,” Draven said. His eyes moved from side to side, and he peered up at me for a moment. “You look hot without your shirt on, baby. Do you know I love you?”
He sounded like he was only half-awake, and when he laughed a moment later, it sounded more like a wheezing cough.
I moved to the side and held his head in my free hand, panic giving way to all-out terror.
The blue sedan was taking off at full speed down the road, and Draven was here in my hands, losing blood.
Seeming to lose consciousness, too.
I fumbled for my phone in my pocket, my hands so shaky and slippery with blood that it fell into the dirt. I picked it up, the screen smudged with a streak of russet blood across the center, trying to swipe it open to call 911.
And then, as I was pushing the dusty phone up to my ear, they came.
Three black SUVs arrived at the gate, and multiple members of Draven’s security team rushed out.
“Get him in the back. Now,” one of the guys barked.
Another approached me. “Max, come along with us. We need to get Mr. Lyons to the hospital immediately.”
I was confused. Confused as to how his security knew my name, firstly, before I realized Draven must have had everyone well informed about me before we arrived.
Two men pulled Draven from the ground and as they carried his blood-soaked body into the back seat of one of the SUVs, I kept my shirt pressed firmly against his wound, following with each step.
I struggled to catch my breath. “He—he got away,” I finally told the security guy nearest to me. “Draven said his name was Sandlefield. Reggie Sandlefield.”
“We have a vehicle in pursuit of the attacker,” one of the men told me. “We will find the guy.”
I sat beside Draven, his head in my lap, in the long back seat of the SUV.
A security guard in the driver’s seat turned to look at us, frowning at the wadded-up shirt.
“Shirt’s soaked through,” he said in a moment. “Put your fingers in the wound.”
“What?”
“Your fingers. The shirt isn’t doing anything to stop the bleeding. It’s a wound in his side. Put your fingers into it, now.”
I looked down at my hand as I took my shirt away. I pulled the fabric of Draven’s shirt up, exposing his abdomen and nearly passing out as I saw the open wound, with so much blood that none of Draven’s tattoos were even visible anymore.
“Hand, into the wound,” the security guard repeated, and I took a deep breath.
I placed three of my fingers directly into his wound. It was warm, but I wasn’t afraid. I would have done anything to stop the bleeding.
“Here,” the crew member said, reaching to pull gauze from a first aid kit with one hand while he drove. “If you’ve found the wound, put this into it now and apply pressure.”
I took the wad of gauze, my hand finally not shaking as I put it into the spot where blood was coming out.