Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
No matter what happened to me, I hoped he and everyone in the club thought of me when they looked at that bastard’s face.
“Go ahead. Shoot,” I invited when I felt the dogs’ fluffy bodies behind me.
“No,” he said, his hand falling back to his side. “I’m not putting you out of your misery until you’re begging and crying for it. Even then… I might keep you around for a few weeks. Maybe keep you drugged up like all your girls. I’ve had my fun with them over the past year. So has everyone else.”
He was trying to provoke me.
It worked.
I cocked back and swung, putting every bit of force in my body into the swing.
His jaw was like hitting concrete. The pain shot from my knuckles all the way up my arm. But I noticed it in a distant kind of way, because I was too busy enjoying the way his head whipped to the side, how blood and a chunk of something white—a tooth?—flew out of his mouth.
A roar burst from him.
And when he looked back, my hand was already reaching for the blade shoved down my pant leg.
But there was no time.
No use.
Because, suddenly, the back of Roach’s head was grabbed in one hand and his chin in another, and I watched in fascinated horror as his head was twisted, cracked, severed from his spinal cord.
The giant hands released him.
His body fell, lifeless, to the ground.
And there was Colter.
Panting for breath.
Bloodied. Bloody. Vibrating with rage.
I didn’t think.
I just… flew at him, wrapped him up, held on tight.
Somewhere off in the clubhouse, there were four loud pops.
Then complete and utter silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Colter
It was pure chaos when I burst into the clubhouse.
Men scrambled.
But none of them were quite as motivated as I was.
And with Saint and Syn not far behind me, it wasn’t long before blood was painting the walls, the couches, and the filthy-ass, drug-covered coffee tables.
It seemed like the fuckers had trouble locating guns. Hence why they’d wanted to make that deal with us in the first place. Only two of the guys seemed to have guns of their own.
One raised his shaky arm, trying to aim at Syn.
Saint lost his fucking mind, taking the guy down in the middle, and then beating the fucker’s face in until he was unrecognizable.
Meanwhile, Syn held his own, taking on another younger guy who was swinging a sad little switchblade.
I saw blood bloom on Syn’s forearm.
But the sight of it, the searing pain of the slice, only seemed to fuel Syn, who got into the cage of the guy’s body, grabbed his head, and slammed it hard into the corner of the wall.
As for me, I plowed into two guys at once, knocking them down like fucking dominos, then pounded into the one who wasn’t pinned to the ground until he stopped moving.
I shoved his body off to the side, grabbed the other one’s head in both hands, and slammed it down on the floor, watching the life drain from his eyes.
All I could hear was my labored breathing and the whooshing of blood in my ears.
Until I moved deeper into the house, trusting Saint and Syn to finish up in the main room.
Then I heard it.
A low rumbling.
Dogs growling.
I turned to the side, heading down a dark hallway toward the back of the building.
If I remembered correctly, on Dylan’s map, there was a small, windowless, cinderblock and cement room where people could be kept and beaten without any hope of escape.
Of course, that was where she would be taken.
My hands were curled so tightly my knuckles screamed. Sweat streamed down my face, blood dripped from the gunshot wound in my arm.
I barely noticed it.
Not with the idea of what could be happening to Dylan in that torture room.
I reminded myself that she had my knife.
That she wasn’t defenseless.
That it had only been a few minutes.
Right?
Time blurred in a fight.
What felt like seconds could be a lot longer. It was hard to tell when you were thrumming with adrenaline and anger.
No.
No, dammit.
I wasn’t going to let my mind go there.
She was fine.
She was a fighter.
She could buy herself time.
I was closing in on the door when I heard a roar that had my blood running cold.
I moved into the dim space to see Roach starting to lift a gun.
Behind him, a bloody, bruised Dylan frantically tried to reach for the knife as she stood in front of the rumbling dogs.
Some part of me wanted to get Dylan and the dogs out of the torture room, then come back in and spend a few hours slowly and methodically breaking every bone in the motherfucker’s body.
But greater than my thirst for revenge for what he’d done to her was the need to get her safe, to feel her in my arms again, to check her over and make sure she was okay.