Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
The thought of Miles worrying hits me like a punch. It makes me sad and furious at the same time.
Because he’s out there somewhere, riding roads with his heart in his throat, and these men are using me like bait in a war I never agreed to fight.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice up through the fear. “You’re making a mistake,” I say. “If you hurt my grandfather—”
The president laughs cutting me off, low and ugly. “You gonna do what?” he asks. “Call the cops?”
A man near the hallway lifts his gun slightly, just enough to remind me what reality we’re in. The president steps closer until he’s right in front of me. He squats down so our faces are level. His eyes are cold, but there’s something almost pleased in them.
“You’re gonna do it,” he instructs. “You’re gonna keep our brother alive if you want to live to fuck your Hellion again.”
The sentence is obscene in his mouth, and it makes my skin crawl. My cheeks burn with humiliation and rage. “I’m not—” My voice cracks. I force it back together. “I’m not your tool.”
His smile disappears. “Wrong answer.”
He reaches out and grips my chin, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough that I feel the strength in his fingers. “Otherwise,” he says, voice flat now, “I’ll put the bullet in you myself and find someone else.”
My breath catches. My whole body goes cold, like fear is draining the heat out of me.
I stare at him, trying to keep my eyes steady, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Think smart.
Stay alive.
What can I do?
I can’t overpower seven men.
I can’t run blind through an unfamiliar house with my hands tied.
I can’t scream—no one would hear, and even if they did, these men would be gone before help arrived.
All I can do is buy time.
All I can do is keep them talking, keep them focused on their injured “brother,” and keep my grandfather alive long enough for something.
For Miles.
For the universe.
For a crack in their plan.
“I can help,” I state slowly.
The president’s eyes narrow, like he doesn’t trust the shift.
“I can help stabilize him,” I add quickly. “I can control bleeding, monitor vitals, prevent shock. But if you want him alive, I need supplies. Sterile supplies. Antibiotics. Pain control. Clean water. Light. Someone to assist.”
The men murmur.
One of them says, “We got a kit.”
Another laughs. “Kit ain’t gonna cut it, dumbass.”
The president stands, looking down at me like he’s weighing whether I’m trying to play him.
“You try to run,” he states, “I’ll FaceTime your granddad while I pull the trigger.”
My stomach flips. “I’m not trying to run,” I share, and I hate that I have to sound reasonable to a man holding my life like a coin he can flick away. “I’m trying to keep your brother alive. If you want that, you need to let me work.”
He stares at me a long moment, then jerks his chin toward the hallway.
“Untie her,” he orders.
Hands grab my shoulders and haul me to my feet. The chair scrapes. Someone cuts the zip ties with a knife, and the sudden release makes my arms tingle painfully as blood rushes back.
I flex my wrists, rubbing the angry red grooves.
“Hands in front,” the president says. “And you keep them where I can see them.”
A man produces another set of zip ties. They bind my wrists again, but this time in front of me, tighter than necessary. My fingers ache.
“Move,” someone says, shoving me toward the hallway.
I stumble, catching myself on the wall. The house smells worse back here—stale air, old smoke, something metallic like blood.
We pass closed doors. A bathroom with a cracked mirror. A laundry room with piles of clothes. The normal details make it more horrifying. Like evil can live in regular wallpaper and cheap carpet.
At the end of the hall, a door opens and a wave of heat hits me.
A bedroom.
But not a bedroom you sleep in.
The bed is shoved against the wall. A tarp is spread across the floor. A standing lamp is angled like a spotlight. And on a chair—an actual wooden chair pulled from a kitchen set—there is a man slumped forward, shirtless, skin slick with sweat.
Blood stains his side.
Dark.
Sticky.
My nursing brain kicks in whether I want it to or not. It’s a reflex. A switch that flips. Assessment mode.
He’s conscious—barely. His head lolls. His breathing is fast, shallow. His lips are pale. His eyes flicker up at me, glassy.
Gunshot wound. Side or lower abdomen. I can’t tell yet.
Someone behind me says, “That’s him.”
Brother.
The one I’m supposed to save. My stomach rolls. “Why didn’t you take him in?” I demand before I can stop myself. “He could bleed out.”
A man laughs. “That’s why you’re here.”
The president steps into the doorway behind me, filling it like a shadow. “He can’t go in,” he repeats, impatient. “You fix him.”