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)
I take hold of the door to slam it shut, then scream when it stops abruptly as he catches it. I jump backward, meet his eyes which are raging. My back hits the font and I turn once more, look for the door in this dark, strange room. It’s at the far end and I take off for it, but there are too many obstacles blocking my path, slowing me down.
“I said faster!” he orders.
I make the mistake of looking back. He’s faster than I expect him to be considering his injury. He’s not even really running, more stalking with one hand over his wound to keep the letter opener in place. When I take my next step, my foot catches the upturned corner of the rug, and I yelp as I go down.
He catches me. I make claws of my hands and scream as I scratch at his chest and in our struggle, I take him down with me. He grabs a wrist. I shove against him, try to wriggle out from under him. My hand is slippery with his blood. Something rips as I try to get away. I’m panting, we both are. There’s blood everywhere, and I’m exhausted, but he’s not. Not yet. Even wounded he has more stamina than me. He’s a fighter. A killer. He’s the fucking Grim Reaper.
“Enough!” he roars.
His weight is on me now, the carpet barely providing any cushion from the hard stone.
My lungs struggle to expand against his weight. “Get away from me. I can’t breathe!” I cry out, slapping at his chest, his face. It’s all I can do. He’s got me pinned.
He lifts his weight off my chest and, even injured, manages to collect my wrists in one hand, the other back on his side, his shirt drenched in blood now. He gets to his knees, takes a labored breath in, then stands, very clearly in pain.
“I already told you. You won’t fly away from me,” he says and hauls me to my feet. He drags me toward the bed, and from the nightstand retrieves a pair of leather cuffs.
“What are you doing?” I demand, struggling to get free.
He sits on the edge of the bed, takes a moment, muttering a curse against the pain. He tugs me close. “Enzo!” he calls out.
“What?” I ask.
He looks at me, eyes narrowed and cuffs my right wrist. I tug my left arm away when he tries to cuff it. I don’t get free, though.
He stops as soon as he has hold of it. I knew he would, didn’t I? I don’t look at him. I keep my gaze on the floor. I don’t want to see his face because I know what he’s looking at and can imagine what he’s thinking.
He brushes the tip of his finger over the nub of my pinkie. I yank to get it free, but he holds tight. When I shift my gaze to his, I find those eyes locked on me, eyebrows furrowed, waiting.
Guess he didn’t expect a missing finger.
Heat burns my face. Why this shames me I have never understood. It’s not like I had any control over what happened. I wait for his reaction. But he doesn’t react. Instead, he cuffs my wrist then stands to his full height and glowers down at me.
The door opens.
“Cassian?” a man asks, Enzo I guess. Then he gets a look at the blood. “Holy shit! What the fuck…” he trails off and I don’t even look over at him because I can’t drag my eyes from Cassian’s. From the insane, crazed look inside them.
“I’m fine. Get some bandages,” Cassian says without looking away from me. “You took that to heart, didn’t you?” he asks, but I don’t know what he’s talking about. He drags me toward the post at the foot of the bed and draws my arms over my head to hook the cuffs before he releases me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to pull free when he steps away.
“That whole I like a little fight,” he says more quietly, properly looking down at his wound now as Enzo returns. He flips a switch and lights go on. Cassian drops heavily into a chair and glares at me. Enzo rushes to his side.
“I don’t think she hit anything vital,” Cassian says.
Enzo rips Cassian’s bloody shirt to look at the wound. Cassian reaches back to tug the tatters of it over his head, and I watch the muscles work, his stomach tensing as he braces against the pain of the wound, chest and biceps rippling with the movement. He tosses the shirt to the floor, and I stare because this is not what normal men look like. He’s all hard muscle, scarred, inked skin. And that ink? I was right. A huge Grim Reaper holding not a sickle, but a clock in his hand. His skull face is partially hidden beneath the hood, and those black, bottomless eyes should be because I shudder to see them. When I lift my gaze to Cassian’s, I find him watching me, his expression curious, intent.