Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Every conversation ends with his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the words I love you slipping out in different shapes.
It’s steamy and messy and intense and also stupidly sweet.
At one point, I end up sprawled across his chest, both of us sweaty and breathless, the fire burning low.
He traces circles on my back.
“You know what the worst part is?” he murmurs.
“What?” I mumble against his skin.
“I finally get you,” he says, “and the first real date I take you on is going to be to the grocery store because we’ll have no food and three weeks’ worth of laundry.”
I huff a sleepy laugh.
“That sounds perfect,” I say. “As long as you’re there.”
He kisses the top of my head.
“I will be,” he says quietly. “That’s the whole point.”
I fall asleep tangled up in him, smelling like smoke and sweat and something new.
Something like a future.
If we survive this—when we survive this—we’re going home as an us.
And for the first time since this whole nightmare started, that thought doesn’t scare me more than the hitmen.
It feels like the best thing I’ve ever decided.
SEVENTEEN
CRASH
KNIGHT
The fire has burned down to embers and my neck is going to hate me tomorrow.
Lark is half on top of me, blanket tangled around our legs, her breath a soft, warm puff against my throat. The cabin smells like smoke and her shampoo and the faint citrus detergent from the sheets. It’s quiet in that heavy, late-night way, the kind that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.
For a second, surfacing from sleep, I let myself believe it.
Just a cabin.
Just a girl.
No bounties. No mobs. No Luka.
Then something slams against the side of the cabin.
The sound yanks me all the way awake.
Wood splinters. Glass shatters. A second later, the faint jingle of the fishing-line can alarm at the back window snaps under the crash.
Every nerve in my body goes live.
I’m moving before I’m fully conscious, adrenaline punching through the last of the fog.
“Lark,” I snap, already rolling us. “Wake up. Move.”
She jerks, blinking, hand fisting in my t-shirt. “Wh—?”
Another crash. The rear window this time. The sound of boots hitting floorboards.
They’re inside.
“Up,” I bark, shoving her toward the low couch. “Couch. Down. Now.”
She doesn’t argue.
She scrambles on all fours, diving behind the old couch just as the cabin door explodes inward, splintered wood skittering across the floor.
The world narrows.
I’m on my feet in front of her without thinking, heart pounding, eyes already tracking entry points, cover, angles. There’s a fireplace poker next to the hearth and her metal bat propped by the wall.
I grab the bat.
Better reach.
The first guy through the door is all black: hoodie, mask, gloves. No words, no hesitation. Just a gun up and sweeping the room.
Suppressor.
Of course.
We don’t get the courtesy of noise.
He pivots toward the couch—toward where Lark was—and I move without thinking, swinging the bat in a tight arc.
It connects with his wrist with a sickening crack.
He grunts, gun flying, and staggers back.
A second shape slips in behind him, smaller, quieter, gun already up. Laser sight skims the wall as they step around the first guy’s shoulder.
“Down!” I bark, dropping sideways as the laser crosses, swinging the bat again.
The first shot is a muffled fthp that tears through the air where my chest was a heartbeat ago. Plaster explodes off the wall. Lark curses softly, ducking lower behind the couch.
The bat connects with something solid on the second swing—colliding with the second shooter’s knee. He crumples with a strangled cry, shot going wide, punching a neat hole through the front window.
Another shooter comes from behind, and I slam the bat across his skull and I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive, but he falls fast. Blood spills from his head. He’s not getting up anytime soon.
The last guy looks at his buddy on the ground and aims his gun right at me. “You fucked up, kid,” he says, aiming his shot.
I lunge right at him, swinging the bat at his face, a move he wasn’t expecting. I connect and he goes down. Lights out.
Fuck.
So much for logs and firelight.
The whole front of the cabin is open now. Cold air knifes in, carrying the smell of pine and cordite.
The first guy recovers faster than I like.
He barrels into me, shoulder in my ribs, driving me back into the corner of the stone hearth. Pain explodes up my side. The bat slips from my grip, clattering away.
We slam into the wall, his weight pinning me. He’s stronger up close than I expected. Or I’m more tired. Maybe both.
He goes for a knife—a flash of matte black at his hip.
I grab his wrist, muscles screaming, fighting the downward plunge. His breath is hot against my face, the lower half of his features covered by a cheap balaclava.
“Hayes,” he grunts, voice muffled. “The boss sends his regards.”