Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
A baby.
And, of course, there was Kylo.
Not a friend.
But, honestly, the closest thing in the world I had to one.
The guy with shady men in and out of his apartment all the time.
He could be shot.
Hurt.
Bleeding out.
Dying.
While I hid in the bathtub like a coward.
To be fair, I would never call myself a brave person. I knew who I was. And that was an anxious mess with horrible social skills, an unhealthy attachment to my dog, and the belief that by reading novels, I was actually getting to experience the life I could never live. Because of my aforementioned anxiety and social issues.
And, you know, it didn’t help that I was also not a fae, vampire, surprise princess, or trained assassin.
But I damn sure wasn’t anybody’s hero.
I’d once watched a guy grab a woman’s purse and run off with it.
I hadn’t chased him.
Even as the woman did so herself.
I was a chickenshit, if I were being honest.
I liked my life as safe as I could possibly make it.
Crawling through my apartment on my belly, making my way toward the front door, was decidedly… not safe.
And not like me.
But I couldn’t seem to make myself turn back, go back to my room, and call the police.
Instead, I was getting to my feet, and looking through the peephole.
Kylo’s door was wide open.
My stomach clenched at the sight, knowing it was him, knowing he was the one who was hurt.
Kylo, the only man that Frida liked. And, in my personal opinion, if a reactive dog liked or approved of you, you were a good person. Even if you did sketchy things to earn a living.
I went down off my tippy toes, and started to work my many locks free.
I didn’t look again out of the peephole.
Which, in hindsight, was a major mistake.
My mind was on saving Kylo.
I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I just wrenched the door open wide.
In time to see three men turn around in the elevator.
And the one in the center, the tall one with a shaved head and an assortment of black and red tattoos, glared right at me, starting to move forward, but one of his friends yanked him back, holding him back from, what? Attacking me?
I was frozen on the spot, unable to move either out or back into the relative safety of my apartment.
So I watched as he raised his hand, twisting his fingers into the shape of a gun, and miming shooting.
Me.
Shooting me.
Then the doors were closed, and they were gone.
My entire body was trembling as I tripped across the hallway.
I didn’t rush in. I didn’t even call his name.
I tiptoed into his apartment as if I knew I was going to find a dead body, not a victim who needed saving.
My lower lip was wobbling as I took in the mess of the space. Open and upturned drawers in his kitchen. Slit couch cushions. Art pulled off the wall.
Someone had to have been… looking for something, right?
Was that why they’d fired?
To scare him into giving them the location of what they were looking for?
I moved through the wreckage, careful to sidestep the shards of broken glass.
My heartbeat was a drum in my chest, the sensation of it reverberating through my entire sternum, the sound pulsing in my ears.
Swallowing hard, I moved down the hallway, glancing into his spare bedroom, but finding just more mess there.
It wasn’t until I was in the doorway of the primary bedroom that I saw him.
On his side on the floor.
Bound to a chair.
Material wrapped over his mouth to muffle any screams he might have let out.
A halo of horrifically red blood was on the light hardwood floor around his midsection.
“Kylo.” His name was a strangled sob as I looked at him, certain that no one could survive that much blood loss.
It wasn’t until I heard a grunting sound that I realized he wasn’t dead.
He wasn’t even unconscious.
He was alive and trying to get my attention.
I flew across the floor, dropping down on my knees beside him, my fingers going for his gag. I yanked it down with shaky fingers until it hung limply around his neck.
“Kylo,” I whimpered as his familiar dark eyes looked at me, heavy-lidded from pain. “Okay. Okay,” I said, hearing the shakiness in my voice, but refusing to let my fear prevent me from helping. “I’m going to help,” I promised him, looking around the room, trying to find a phone.
“Leave,” Kylo demanded, voice tight from the way his teeth were gritted together. “Not safe.”
“They’re gone,” I told him. “Where’s your phone?” I whimpered as the halo of blood seemed to grow larger by the second.
I was jumping up before he could answer.
It was no use, though.
His room had been tossed as well, the contents of every nightstand and dresser drawer and the clothes of his closet strewn all about.