Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Time slowed down as the scent of the enemy wrapped around them, binding them together—and Shuli reached up to his face and put his forefinger under his eye. With a swipe, he removed the foundation he used to cover the teardrop that had been inked onto his skin.
Unlike the King’s son, the tiny outline was the only tattoo he had—and he had a thought, as they were suspended on the precipice of yet another engagement with the enemy, that as much as he hated the job he’d been force-fed…
He was going to take the shit seriously.
Especially after tonight. It wasn’t the audience with the King and the sparing of his ass that shined a light on his intention. It was the dumb shit with Lyric, the fantasy that he had to let go. She was out living her life, and he needed to get real and find a better purpose than mooning after that female.
As he had no other potential motivators, it might as well be keeping L.W. alive—and that was a noble calling: There were plenty of people engaging in the war, plenty of fighters and Brothers killing lessers and trying to get to Lash.
But there was only one who was supposed to watch out for the heir.
And whether L.W. liked it or not, they were stuck with each other.
“Doing his best” was going to be a lot more than a throwaway excuse from now on, goddamn it.
“Let me go first,” Shuli said in a low voice.
L.W.’s expression screwed down into the frustrated anger that was as much a part of the male as his frickin’ heartbeat.
And Shuli just shook his head at the guy. “Please. I’m not important. You are, and we don’t know what’s down there. Let me die as the target, and you can clean up.”
The curse that came back at him wasn’t a surprise. “Come on. Why the hell are you doing this—”
“Because I don’t have anything else in life, you dumb shit.” Shuli stepped around the other fighter. “And being remembered for trying to save you ain’t a bad way to go out. You can put it on my gravestone.”
On that note, he started his descent, and he was light on the balls of his boots, twinkle-toeing toward the well-lit hallway below. With every step, the stench of the undead got stronger—and so did his conviction.
No one knew how much longer they had left. So he might as well do something worthy while he was counting down the hours.
And what do you know.
When he hit the half landing, he glanced up over his shoulder. L.W. was where he’d left the heir to the throne, poised between standing on that top step and the rush his body was momentarily going to fall into.
For once, that harsh face wasn’t sporting aggression.
There was a sadness revealed that surely the male would have denied if he’d been called out on it. But everyone had their own demons.
Even fighters who fought with everybody.
Maybe them especially.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Up on the roof, Lyric stared across at Dev—and pulled the kind of blank that there was no recovering from: No thoughts in her head, body frozen, breath exhaling in a rush. She couldn’t have looked guiltier if she’d jimmied the lock of his apartment and waltzed right in.
The fact she’d shown up back here—on the roof no less—after her no-one-night-stands speech made her look like a deluded stalker.
And it wasn’t like she could defend herself with the ol’ you-have-an-infestation-of-the-undead-in-your-building yarn.
“What’s going on here?” Dev walked over to where she stood at the ledge. “What are you doing?”
He’d changed out of his running tights—into loose sweatpants that added bulk to his lower body—but he’d kept his windbreaker on, the folds flapping in the wind. Had he bothered to put a shirt on?
Like that was any of her business…
“Are you okay?” he asked with a frown. As if he were thinking they might be entering 911 land.
“My scarf,” she blurted.
He glanced around. Then both his eyebrows lifted. “I’m sorry? Your scarf is up here?”
“Um, no. Sorry.” She starting doing jazz hands for some reason, so she shoved her fists into her parka’s pockets. “I think I left my scarf in your apartment. I don’t have your number, I couldn’t get in through the front door, and I thought—”
“How did you get up here?”
She looked over her shoulder—
Directly below, her brother, L.W., and Shuli filed out of the basement door the white-haired figure had left from. And their weapons were out, the guns glinting subtly.
Instantly, her eyes panic-scanned the parking lot—and landed on a car whose brake lights came on. Next, steam petered out of its tailpipe.
Shit.
Whipping her head back around, she tried to remember what Dev had asked her?
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a pair of curved metal arms swooping over the ledge. “Fire escape.”