Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“Fuckkk!” bellows the man who cannot leave these woods alive.
War cries are attached to me smashing the stone into his face a second time.
And third.
And fourth.
By the fifth I’ve managed to balance the bobbing and weaving maneuver in order to continue striking until I can begin to see the bone breaking.
And that sight?
That sight builds confidence.
And strength.
And adrenaline.
“Dieeeeeee!” I screech, beginning to rise in tandem with him beginning to crumple despite his flailing attempts to block the shots. “Dieeeeee!”
Blood from the repeated injury splatters across my grime covered legs, incessantly adding to the filth and fury and reclaimed vigor.
He has to die.
Tonight.
Everyone’s life depends on it.
Especially the child I’m carrying.
While having made it to a standing position is incredible, the victory of being back on my feet is unfortunately short-lived.
On the next intended slam, Brad not only catches my wrist, he snaps it completely backwards, breaking or spraining something, which forces the weapon to fall from my hand. Blood curdling screams unforgivingly flood the night air, growing in numbers and decimals, when he uses a fistful of my hair to throw me into the nearest tree trunk. The impact alone is enough to sever the sound as it completely knocks the air out of my lungs; however, he heartlessly winds his crimson coated palm around my throat to secure my silence.
To pin me against the wood at a safe distance.
A safe but squeezable distance.
“Don’t scream, sweet pea,” he commands while clenching tighter. “Our baby needs air.”
I tenaciously fling my arms around hoping to break his hold or his focus.
Slap his forearm.
Land another kick to his leg.
Dick.
Somewhere.
Anywhere.
“You don’t breathe…” the tips of his fingers flex to the point I can feel him practically crushing my windpipe, “he doesn’t breathe…”
Tears begin lining the rims of my eyes as choked gasps shake my entire frame, echoing his claim.
Reiterating I have to make the choice.
That now is the only time I have to make a choice.
I can either surrender and live to have the baby or fight and kill us both.
I choose death.
Death over terror.
“Kill,” comes out in a gravelly whisper. “Me.”
“Not while we’re alive, Rabbit,” Mutt unexpectedly announces at the same time he wields a crowbar at Brad’s face.
Unsurprisingly, The Nightmare on Wallstreet manages to block the blow with his free hand. Due to that choice, he has none left to protect himself from The Kid swinging bolt cutters into the side of his ribcage. Brad hisses, releases my neck, and makes a move to retaliate, leaving me open to return to the fight. The tip of my foot successfully nails him in the dick split seconds prior to Mutt executing an uppercut. Fumbling headfirst to the ground transitions from being a possibility to guaranteed courtesy of my other boyfriend thrashing his tool directly into our assailant’s throat, likely splitting his vocal cords.
“Don’t scream, motherfucker,” Nolan growls as Brad looks up at us, clearly struggling to breathe.
“You might need that air,” taunts The Kid from the opposite side of his twitching body.
Each male stomping down on an arm to insure he stays immobile precedes Nolan shooting me a cheeky smirk. “You started without us, Rabbit. That’s fucked up.”
Relief that I can physically see that he’s alive and alive enough to call me the nickname I know I’d miss despite my initial resistance to it effortlessly pulls the corners of my lips up to the moonlit sky. “You’d be late to your own funeral, Mutt.”
“How about a thank you for being early to what could’ve been yours?”
“Thank you,” instantly and genuinely springs free, gaze swiveling between the two of them to indicate the message is for both.
“Better,” grumbles the man I wouldn’t want any other way.
“Always,” Kid bashfully murmurs, cheeks tinting on a bit of a blush, as though he can’t handle the praise.
Oh, when this is over, he’ll be getting so much praise.
We all will.
“And as for you…” my heel slams directly on top of his bent knee prompting him to twitch upward in additional agony, “I told you, you’d be leaving here in pieces.” Repeating the action causes an audible crack to echo throughout the woods. “I meant it.” I extend the palm of my non-injured wrist outward towards my older boyfriend. “Crowbar.”
Thankfully, the toss is easy to catch with my offhand and so is hammering down on the obviously fractured space.
This time there’s no screaming attached to my swinging.
No cathartic cries or howls.
Just slow and controlled and concentrated breathing as I alternate between severing strikes to whatever’s desperately trying to keep his bones together and driving the edge of the bar into the space to wedge the gap wider and wider.
Brad’s other leg wildly jerks in determination to reach me or free him or maybe even shake my boyfriends’ holds leaving me no choice but to abruptly stop my dissection to whack it in discouragement.