Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
He took the time to shower before coming in here to get me. He’s relaxed, I guess.
My gaze shifts to his tattoo, I’d only glimpsed a small portion on the side of his neck earlier. Now, through the V-neck T-shirt, I see the head of a hooded man and what I can make out of the face peering out from beneath that hood is a skull.
The Grim Reaper.
Reaper.
That’s right. That’s what his nickname is. My father commented on it once and I must have cataloged it somewhere.
From the ink I can see, the tattoo must span both his chest and back.
He looks around me to the door. He tugs that hairpin I managed to jam in the lock out and holds it in the palm of his hand.
I stare down at it.
“What is this, the movies?” he asks.
I look up at him, but don’t bother answering. I think it’s rhetorical anyway.
“What was your plan? Break out of this room with a hairpin,” he starts, emphasizing that last part like it was possibly the dumbest thing anyone’s ever done. “And what, Allegra? Take on my men? Are you some sort of secret ninja warrior? Should I be worried, Little Moth?”
I clear my throat and decide to ignore that last bit. “What did you expect me to do? Sit here and play good little victim?” I ask instead.
“Actually, I’m hoping you’ll fight. Good little victim is no fun. I just didn’t know you were stupid.”
“I’m not stupid. And I’m no victim.”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s not exactly a smart move.”
“Get out of my way,” I snap. I try to scoot around him, but he sets his hand on the wall. When I try to go the other way, he cages me in, arms on either side of my head, his big body blocking me.
“I clipped your wings, Little Moth. You won’t fly away, not from me.”
“Stop calling me a moth.” I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
“I’ll call you whatever I like.” He leans his face close and, keeping eye contact, inhales deeply and makes a satisfied sound. “Do you know what you smell of, Moth?” I don’t answer, but again, he’s not waiting for me to. “You smell of fear.”
He straightens, a smirk on his face, a challenge. I glare up at him. I have no comeback. He has a keen sense of smell. I am scared. I’m fucking terrified. I have reason to be.
“Any more tricks up your sleeve?” he asks, wholly satisfied with himself.
Prick.
I narrow my gaze and grin. “Just this one,” I say, because I know if you don’t fight, they don’t go any easier on you. The opposite. So, I slide my hand into the pocket of my pants and wrap it around the bejeweled letter opener I’d found in the desk in the room. It’s quite pretty, actually. I draw it out and before he can register what I’m doing and before I can change my mind, I stab it into his side.
For a moment, we both freeze. Me with my hand wrapped around the hilt of the letter opener, him, with a look of surprise and then pain on his face.
He grunts or growls or something. His eyes narrow even more. He presses his right hand to my shoulder and pushes me against the door as we both look at where the would-be dagger is sticking out of his side, lodged low, between his ribs.
Warm blood trickles onto my hand and I pull it away, almost trying to hide it behind my back.
“That was,” he starts closing his hand over the hilt. He’s in pain. I hear it in his voice. “A mistake,” he finishes.
Blood seeps around his fingers, but he doesn’t pull the blade out. I think if he pulled it out, it’d be worse.
I stare up at him. Shit. Did I hit an important organ?
He draws a tight breath in, and I know each second of it hurts. He loosens his hand on my shoulder and the instant he does, I run. I sprint fast toward that open door and almost reach it. So close. I scream when he grabs me by the arm and spins me around, but he’s hurt and in pain and I slam my fist into the back of the hand that’s still closed over the wound. When I do, he lets out a grunt and falls back a step.
It’s enough. I turn and again, I run. I get through the door into what I thought was his bedroom, but stop because there, in the middle is a large stone structure, a baptismal font, carved and beautiful and what the fuck is it doing in the middle of a bedroom?
“You’d better run faster than that, Moth,” he bellows behind me, and I turn to look, to watch him coming.