Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
You sharpen your knives and prepare to get bloody because nobody does it better than a woman scorned with something to prove.
Welcome to the 23rd annual serial killer war games, where the adrenaline runs high, the blood is fresh, and the revenge is best served cold.
Descending on the town of Blue Springs, Montana, twenty of the most cunning and skilled killers and assassins will come together for a month-long war, battling it out to claim their place at the top of the food chain, claiming the ultimate victory.
It’s callous, cruel, and brutal. They will be hunted. They will become prey. And when the time comes, they better be ready to fight. Because only one will make it out alive.
It’s a game of endurance. A game of depravity and horror. But what happens when the man who stands between an early grave and victory is the one man who could bring you to your knees?
Will you have the courage to take what’s yours and claim the title you’ve always deserved, or will you falter at the tip of his double-edged blade?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
SIREN
Holy fucking shit, my asshole!
Tears form in my eyes as I tackle the toddler-sized shapewear into place. What the fuck was I thinking? It promised me a snatched waist, but all I’ve gotten is trauma. I mean, shit! Why is it so hard to breathe in this thing?
The back of the thong is getting an up-close tour of my intestines while every step I take feels like a chainsaw violently ripping me in half. This is too much. The model in the ad definitely didn’t look like she was getting the life sucked out of her, and she sure as hell didn’t have red scratches up and down her thighs from her nails as she clawed the bastard up her body.
This is so much more than just false advertising; it’s a death sentence in the form of shapewear.
The fabric bunches at my waist as I frantically try to yank it up my body, but it’s so damn tight, I can practically feel my lungs screaming for freedom. The fabric rolls over itself, making it even tighter and I madly try to find the armholes, having to use my nails to dig under the shapewear and stretch it out.
“Oh, God. Oh God. Oh God. This is what death feels like.”
Finding the armholes, I yank the bodysuit up only for the fabric to get caught beneath my tits, and holy fuck, I’ve never regretted anything so bad in my whole life.
Pinching the fabric as tight as I can in both hands, I pull it out and over my tits before finally releasing it and crying out as it compresses back around me with a tight smack.
“Holy fucking shit.”
Am I supposed to be working up such a sweat?
I fall back against the door of my closet while white-knuckling the shelf in a desperate bid to keep myself upright. I try to catch my breath, positive if I were to fall, I’d never be able to get up again. But what really terrifies me is the thought of trying to get myself out of this thing. Surely it’s not possible. The bodysuit and I are now destined to spend the rest of our lives together. I hope it approves of trashy TV and takeout because that’s all it has to look forward to from here on out.
Bracing myself against the door, I wait a few agonizing moments for my organs to adjust to their new home before finally being able to take a decent breath. I fix myself in front of my full-length mirror and shove my hands down the front of the bodysuit, doing what I can to adjust my tits until they look just right. Damn it. Why do I have to like the way it looks so much?
Beauty is pain, right? Who needs to breathe when you can look this photoshopped? I’ll put up with my ass being violated by a piece of string any day if this is how snatched I look.
Turning left and right, I check myself out, drooling over my newfound curves. I should have bought one of these years ago. Though, years ago, I probably didn’t need it. What can I say? I’ve developed a deep love for cocktails, and if I have to sacrifice my once-toned waist to keep up the addiction, I’ll happily make the sacrifice.
My phone rings across my bedroom, and I hurry out of my closet to quickly scoop it off the end of my bed. There’s no caller ID, but I already know exactly who it is. There’s only one person I would ever trust to have my number, and that’s Mila—the best hacker and friend across the globe.
“Talk dirty to me.”
“Why do you sound so worked up?” she asks with the slightest Russian accent, something she hasn’t been able to shake since moving to the US as a young girl. And by moving I mean being abandoned here by her horrible parents and left to fend for herself. Which she did a remarkable job of, by the way. So remarkable, that it’s what we first bonded over. Nothing quite like childhood trauma to bring two friends together.
We’re both screwed up, one of us significantly more than the other, but we wouldn’t have it any other way. Mila’s daddy issues seem like a vacation in comparison to mine, and that’s saying a lot. I was orphaned as a little girl after watching my father murder my mother and then come after me. He shot me twice in the stomach, and after watching me bleed out, assuming I was done for, he turned the gun on himself. If it weren’t for nosey neighbors calling the police, I would have been dead a long time ago, and sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it would have been better that way.
After weeks in the hospital, I was discarded into the foster system. My new life meant starting over every few months, jumping from abusive home to abusive home until I was finally forgotten about. I ended up as a runaway living in an abandoned office building, but that is where I first met Mila.