Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Exhaling hard so my wind wouldn’t be knocked out of me, I threw my weight backward.
The world lurched.
His grip tightened on me as he stumbled, his shoe missing a step.
I twisted hard, turning my body into dead, swinging weight.
Below me, he cursed.
Another step vanished beneath his foot.
His arm released me as he fought to stop the momentum of his fall.
There was nothing I could do to stop mine or brace myself against it.
My hands were behind my back.
I was going to land on my front.
The best I could hope for was my face not hitting the edge of a step.
It felt like falling in slow motion, yet so quick that my heart hadn’t caught up with the adrenaline by the time I crashed down.
The side of my face hit the flat side of a step, my neck taking the brunt of the edge even as my ribs, hips, and knees hit other steps.
I slid down a few steps before I planted my knees, then threw myself onto my side facing the banister as I awkwardly used my bound legs to kick into the wall. Once, twice, three times. The drywall gave way, my feet disappearing into the wall for a second.
But there was no way Chip didn’t hear that.
“Stupid bitch,” the man snarled, crawling up the steps toward me, the pain twisting his face in a mask of fury.
As soon as he was close enough, his hand shot out, grabbing my zip-tied ankles and dragging me down.
I went down two steps, cheek, chest, and hips whacking against each, until I yanked my legs free and shoved them through one of the gaps in the banister. A spindle broke free and clattered to the floor, but created more space for my legs to slip through far enough to curl my knees around a spindle and hold on.
They were never going to hold, and all it took was the guy grabbing for my aching wrist and yanking me down backward for more spindles to clatter to the floor the movement forced my legs free.
In that position, at least, I could tuck my chin to my chest to avoid my head whacking off the stairs as I was dragged downward.
The adrenaline must have been masking the pain, because I felt next to nothing but the pain in the hand of the wrist he was pulling. Everything else that I knew was hurt was oddly numb, every part of me weirdly focused on my pulse and how it slammed in all the points, how it felt like my heart was about to punch free of my ribcage.
But even as my ass hit the last step, there was a yell from outside, a loud pop, and more yelling, but it was moving further and further away.
I twisted my head just in time to see my front door fly open.
Then there was Chip.
A flashlight held over the muzzle of his gun like I saw cops doing in movies.
The man was forced to release me, reaching toward his waistband.
I didn’t hesitate.
I twisted on the step, throwing my bound legs into the guy’s knee with everything I had.
It felt wrong how much I enjoyed the roar of pain that escaped him as he went down.
It only lasted for a second, though.
Then his hand was searching for his own weapon again.
I screamed against my duct-taped mouth, trying to warn Chip.
There was no need.
There was a bang—louder than the other one had sounded in the small space of my home—and my attacker’s body jerked hard.
I felt something hot and wet splash across my face.
I braced for the man to fall dead right in front of me.
Instead, he grabbed his arm with his other hand, turned, and ran.
Chip stepped aside, letting him, then kicked the door closed and slid the locks.
“Stay down,” he told me, voice rough. As if I had any other choice.
He was winded, his heartbeat likely pounding as hard as my own as the adrenaline surged through our veins.
There was the sound of doors slamming, then tires squealing as a car peeled away.
Chip moved to the window, watching, waiting, his body still tense.
I couldn’t say how many minutes passed then. Ten? Fifteen? It felt like forever.
But, finally, he turned toward me as he clicked off his flashlight and tucked his gun away. Finished with that, he flicked on the light, and his gaze fell on me.
“Fuck.”
That bad, huh, Chip? I wanted to ask.
But I knew it was bad.
As the adrenaline started to fade, all the pain was setting in. My head, face, chest, shoulder, ribs, hips, and, God, my hand.
I felt like one big bruise, throbbing all over at once, all my various injuries vying for attention.
“One second,” he said, rushing past the staircase and toward the kitchen, where I heard him rifling around before coming back with a knife and a safety pin from our junk drawer.