Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
But Hans doesn’t stop there. He drives the tip of his knife into the man’s left eye socket with a wet pop, then twists the blade with deliberate slowness, stirring the contents like he’s mixing cake batter. The eyeball bursts with a sound like stepping on a grape, and Hans actually hums a little tune while he works. The man’s remaining eye stares up at nothing, blood and vitreous fluid running down his cheek in pink rivulets.
Even I have to look away, and I’ve seen some shit. There’s excessive, and then there’s whatever the hell Hans just did to that poor bastard’s brain.
“You’re just showing off,” I tell him as he wipes the blade clean.
Hans grins, looking genuinely pleased with himself. “Boss, for years it’s always been you leading the charge with that axe of yours. Now it’s my turn to have some fun.” He gestures at the bodies with mock pride. “Besides, when do I ever get to be creative? Usually I just follow your lead and clean up the mess. Where’s the flair in that?” He toes one of the dead bodies on the ground. “They deserve it. Actually . . . they deserve worse.”
Thirty seconds. Three bodies. One unnecessary eye socket violation. Zero survivors.
Sara’s eyes are wide open, staring at the death scene. She sits up slowly, taking in the carnage, then her gaze finds mine across the room. Her skin has gone ghost-pale, making the bruise on her upper arm look even darker—dark purple against pale skin. The sight makes me want to resurrect these dead assholes just so I can kill them again.
Christ, she looks so young. So fragile sitting there surrounded by death and violence, trying to process what just happened. She shouldn’t have to see this. Shouldn’t have to witness grown men reduced to meat and blood.
“Blue?” Her voice cracks slightly on my name, those expressive eyes moving between relief and suspicion. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you, Sara.” I step carefully around the bodies, hands visible, voice calm. The last thing she needs is another man making her feel trapped. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“How do you know that name?” Her voice wavers, shock bleeding through the words. “Nobody calls me Sara. Nobody even knows—” She stops, staring at me like I’m a ghost. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sara, listen. We need to get you—”
“Don’t call me Sara.” The demand comes out sharp, desperate. “My name is Saylor. And rescue?” Her gaze darts to the bodies scattered around the room, to the blood pooling on the floor, to Hans wiping his knife clean. “This isn’t rescue, this is—oh god, there’s so much blood. They’re all—are they all dead?”
Her breathing picks up, quick and shallow. She’s spiraling, processing too much at once.
“You actually—I wanted them dead but I never thought—” She pushes herself up from the couch, swaying slightly. I can see the careful way she favors her left side. They roughed her up.
I move closer, needing to get between her and the carnage, to shield her from the worst of it. “Hey,” I say softly, catching her attention. “Look at me, not them.”
But her focus keeps drifting back to the bodies, to the blood spreading across the floor.
“Saylor.” Her name puts her attention back on me. “These men were going to kill you. We stopped that from happening. But we need to go. Now.”
She’s looking around the room now, really taking it in—the blood, the bodies, the overturned chairs. “Jesus . . . it’s like a fucking slaughterhouse in here.”
She’s right—this is exactly what it is. Her hands are shaking now, and I want nothing more than to wrap her in my jacket and carry her far away from this place, from this world, from everything that could hurt her.
“Why are you here? What do you want with me?”
“I was a friend of your father’s.” I keep my voice steady, calm. “I’ll explain everything once we get to Grimlock. My home. Where you’ll be safe.”
“Safe from what? And what the hell is Grimlock?”
“We need to leave.”
She processes this, stunning eyes studying my face like she’s trying to read my thoughts. Smart. Too smart for her own good.
But I can see the fight building in her posture, the stubborn tilt of her chin that reminds me so much of Peter it hurts.
“I know this is a lot,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“A lot?” Her voice rises. “A lot is finding out your coffee shop raised their prices. A lot is getting a parking ticket. This is—this is fucking insane!”
She’s right, of course. Completely, absolutely right. But we don’t have time for a philosophical discussion about the nature of reality and how quickly it can turn to shit.
“I’m not going anywhere with two fucking strangers.” Her voice rises, panic edging in. “I don’t care if you knew my father. You just killed three people in front of me. You’re clearly as dangerous as they were.”