Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Print out those words and hang them in your room, then look at them when you think of me and write me a letter.
I’m waiting.
I’ll try to be nice in my reply, although I make no promises.
It’ll depend on my mood, I guess.
DON’T FUCKING GHOST ME.
Akira
11
Sebastian
I think I died.
Maybe dying is the best thing that could happen to me.
If I’m dead, I won’t be thinking about Naomi with another man. If I’m dead, it’ll all be over. I’ll join the demons and all their friends and forget about the life I left behind.
But wouldn’t that be the easy way out?
Wouldn’t that mean I gave up too easily on what I found precious? On the life I finally found?
I don’t want to die. Not if it means leaving Naomi unprotected and in danger.
I need to get back and be there for her.
My head throbs and my lids are glued together, refusing to open.
I suck in a sharp breath and cough when the smell of bleach assaults me.
Am I still in the same room?
“Sebastian?”
The voice that calls my name is familiar—too familiar.
Slowly, I force my eyes open, then squint when light bursts through. Fuck.
Who knew that something as harmless as light would hurt as if someone were holding a torch in front of my face?
It takes me a few seconds to adjust, and even then, I don’t widen my vision to its fullest.
The first thing I notice is white. Walls. Ceiling. It’s different from the gray of the cell where I last saw Naomi.
I’m lying on a soft mattress instead of the cold, merciless floor.
I’m in the hospital.
Maybe that’s why my shoulder doesn’t hurt like a bitch and I don’t feel like I’ll starve to death.
I should be relieved that I’m getting help, that I’m not, in fact, dying, but I’m not.
The last time I woke up in a hospital, I learned the news of my parents’ deaths. Life as I knew it splintered into a million pieces and never really became the same again.
The same damned premonition I had at that time hits me.
Something’s wrong.
The fact that I’m not in that cell anymore means Naomi had to pay the price of my exit ticket.
My heartbeat roars in my ears and my dry throat closes. I attempt to get up, but pain explodes in my upper shoulder, knocking me back down.
“Don’t move. You’re hurt.”
I blink twice against the searing pain and make out the contours of my uncle’s face. He’s wearing his sharp suit that’s meant for business, and his expression is just as hard and ruthless as I recall.
But unlike his usual aloof attitude, he stares down at me with a furrowed brow.
“Nate…” I croak in a hoarse, scratchy voice. “I need… I need to find…”
A low groan escapes me when the pain pulses again. It’s hard to breathe, let alone talk.
“You’re in no condition to find anyone. You’re lucky to be alive, Rascal. When the hospital called Mrs. Weaver and told her you were in critical condition, they meant it. You were apparently dropped off near the emergency room by masked men.”
“They kidnapped us…” I cough, then wince when it triggers the pain. “Fuck…”
“Don’t talk.” He adjusts me back into a reclining position. “And we know you were taken.”
“They…called you?”
“No. But you’re not the type who would disappear for three days without a word. Your car and phone were found near the forest. Mr. and Mrs. Weaver flipped the whole town upside down to find you. They even used their connections and money, but it produced nothing. We thought we’d lost you for a second.”
But they didn’t.
And it’s not a fucking miracle.
If my influential grandparents, who are more powerful than anyone I know, couldn’t find me, then this is a lot more fucking serious than I thought.
“Nate…” I grunt.
“Don’t push it. You need to rest. Mrs. Weaver went to get the doctor. You spent three days in a medically induced coma to help you recuperate and she thinks there’s something odd going on, because you weren’t waking up. You know how demanding she is of everyone’s time. Mr. Weaver is talking to the police and calling them useless because they still haven’t found who did this. Want a bet that he’ll use this incident in his upcoming campaign? His chosen vocabulary will be all about the turmoil and family bond and so on and so forth.”
I don’t give a fuck about my grandparents right now. The fire inside me only burns for one person.
Her.
My Naomi.
The thought of her safety precedes my own. I’ve been suffocating ever since she kissed me, told me she loved me, then walked out of that door.
I won’t be able to breathe properly unless I make sure she’s safe and sound.
“There was someone else, Nate…”
“Someone else?”
“My girl.”
“Naomi?”
“She…she was with me.”
The crease between his brows deepens. “You’re the only one they dropped off.”