Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
My hands move on instinct, and I feel it through the rings, the wet crunch of steel meeting bone.
One of them staggers back, nose gone wrong and soundless shock splashed across his face.
The other hesitates long enough for regret to register. I love that half-second, the moment they realize my rings aren’t decoration, and the skirt-wearing wacko is very, very good at this.
I pounce, knuckles heavy, breath hot, and heart kicking. There’s no mercy here. No room for it. Only the need to end the threat before it ends us.
The rings bite. The razor slices. Faces fold, and one by one, the room empties of resistance.
The noise collapses into ragged breathing. The echo of movement fades. Silence creeps back in, thick and stunned, broken only by the drip of blood against concrete.
Every crow in the room lies unmoving on the floor.
Jag stands beside me, breathing hard, eyes wild but clear. Still upright. Still here.
I wipe gore from my face with the back of my hand, spit a mouthful of blood, and meet Jag’s eyes.
His hands shake. His breath comes in sharp, uneven pulls, and his muscles appear locked as if the fight might start again. I know the feeling. My own pulse is crashing, heat draining fast, leaving a hollow tremor behind my ribs. Shock with teeth.
His gaze flicks to the body on the floor.
Adrian Crowe.
The pedophile kingpin he hunted for two decades.
The reason he and Dove lost their parents and lived on the streets.
No more.
“Where is she?” His wrecked, broken voice guts me almost as much as the question itself.
“She’s not here. Surveillance confirmed she’s not in this building.”
The swollen lines in his face fracture. Not loud or dramatic. Just a hairline split where hope had been white-knuckled into place. His eyes return to me, and through the damage, behind the bruises and blood and ten days of hell, I see it.
Trust.
He’s barely standing, held together by adrenaline and determination, a twitch away from buckling.
There’s so much I want to say. So much I need to say. But there’s a van full of mobsters and mouth-breathers listening and watching. This isn’t the moment to break.
“Move!” Oliver snaps in my ear. “Now. Sirens are inbound.”
“We’ll find her.” I push into Jag’s space, clasp his hand, and hook our pinkies together in a language he understands. “I swear it.”
He stares down at our entwined fingers, his eyes stark and brows furrowed. Then his gaze lifts to mine, and he nods. That’s all he’s got. It’s enough.
I turn us toward the door, my shoulder braced against his and my grip tight on his hand.
We hurry out of the kill room, out of the building, and away from the bodies, the blood, and the monster that tried to keep him.
Jag keeps pace beside me, barefoot, shirtless, every inch of him streaked red. His body wobbles on sputtering adrenaline, each step costing him a world of pain. I would offer to carry him, but he would never permit it. So I keep him close enough to catch him if he tips.
We don’t stop running until the stairs spit us out into the vacant nightclub. The lights pulse to nobody, the bass thudding like a dying heart.
A few guards hover near the exits, weapons lowered, eyes wide. No one wants to tackle the psycho in a skirt with a live bomb and a bloodied smile.
We burst through the door into humid air and neon glare.
Monty is there, hands catching Jag’s shoulders, checking him for injuries, and finding too many. Kody flanks me, one hand on my back, the other on Jag, his eyes black and furious.
“Move.” Monty herds us forward. “Now.”
Sirens rise in the distance, swelling fast.
We half-jog, half-stagger down the block. Someone yanks the van door open, and we pile in. The sirens scream, and Monty slides behind the wheel. A second later, we’re moving.
Jag drops to the floor with his back against the wall, legs spread, head tipped forward.
He looks wrecked, face covered in stubble, skin blotched with bruises, hair standing in blood-soaked spikes. No less lethal.
“Where are you hurt?” I sink between his knees, hands already moving, scanning him by muscle memory and instinct.
“You came for me.” He lifts his head and stares at me as if trying to decide if I’m real.
“I was in the neighborhood.” A crooked grin pulls at my mouth despite everything.
His gaze darts around the van, at Monty, Kody, Mikhail’s calm silhouette, and Oliver already moving toward my vest.
“You came…” His voice scrapes. “With the Russian mob.”
“I saw what you did in the tattoo shop. The surrender.” I meet his eyes. “I knew you didn’t take her.”
He doesn’t soften. I’m not sure he knows how. But his expression eases, the smallest give, as his body stops arguing with reality.
The van makes a sharp turn, and I brace a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.