Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Something disgusting?”
She gulps and drops her eyes. “Like whoring myself to get to you.”
Ah. She’s scared of reminding me, like I plan to get revenge the second she mentions it. I grab her chin and tilt her face up to look into her eyes again.
“Fine. Besides your father, who is in charge over there?”
This time she thinks, her eyes taking on a far-off look and then focusing on me again. “Probably the doctor. One of the doctors he employs who helps him with his tinkering, or whatever he calls it. Chemists who help him make his drugs. He’s trained himself, but he likes to experiment and likes others around so he can discuss his experiments with them. He has a big ego.”
She doesn’t need to remind me of that. Arthur’s ego is bigger than his compound. “Yeah, I got that at our first meeting. That, and he’s a huge fucking douche.”
This makes her chuckle, and the sound of her laughter loosens something in my chest enough that I feel like I can breathe deeper. It’s nothing but a connection born from our shared experience, but I don’t question when something helps me stay in control of my emotions. She’s helped me do that from day one.
“What else can you tell me? Anything about a weak spot in his compound? Anywhere in the building you used to sneak out as a teenager?”
She takes another bite of her sandwich and shakes her head. “No,” she mumbles. “I didn’t exactly have a normal childhood or normal teenage years. Not when my family is filled with fucking assholes and pedophiles.”
Fair point. “Anything else you can tell me at all that might help?”
Her lashes are damp when she meets my eyes again. Concern swirls deep within.
“What happens to me now?”
I meet her gaze head-on. “What do you think happens to you now? What do you want, Priscilla?”
I watch her face closely. Not for her to lie but to see if I can spot it, to see what she wants. I don’t know if it’s for herself or me, but she gives me nothing and says nothing that clues me in on what she wants or needs.
Gently, I tug her free hand into mine, the scent of peanut butter between us. “For now, you belong to me. No one will touch you. No one will hurt you. No one will get near you without my say-so. Do you understand?”
She nods and sets what’s left of her sandwich on the table, and places her hand on top of mine. “Then what?”
“Then we will kill every motherfucker in that building, starting at the top and working our way down to the bottom. Not one person involved in this drug operation will be left standing when I’m through with that hellhole.”
19
CILLA
As much as I enjoy the idea of punishing everyone who hurt me, killing everyone is not what I want. I’ve seen so much death and violence in my life that the idea of causing more turns my stomach.
I pull away from him and stand to pace. “Can’t we just revel in being free instead of needing to cause more death?”
Sometimes, I fantasize about murdering them all, even going so far as to promise myself in my head. But if someone wrapped my palm around a gun, I’m not entirely sure I’d be able to pull that trigger.
“Freedom doesn’t mean what you think it does in this world. You’re never really free. You’re just running on borrowed time, waiting for the moment when your enemy gets the upper hand. It’s a game of wits, of being a little smarter than the person in front of you.”
His response doesn’t make me feel better, and I swallow hard. “Ummm…I’m not sure what I can do in this situation. I’m not smart, or—”
He stomps over, takes hold of my chin hard, and forces me to look at him. “Don’t speak about yourself like that. As to what you do, well…” He smiles, but it’s more unhinged than gleeful. “The season is open. I can blow every one of these motherfuckers to bits, and no one can stop me.”
I stay still and calm in his grasp. After a few more seconds, he releases me and walks toward the window in the living room to stare out.
His voice is too quiet when he asks, “Why don’t you want these assholes dead?”
I wrap my arms around my middle. “I never said I didn’t want them dead. I just don’t think I can be the one to kill them.”
His back is stiff, and I don’t like that I can’t see his face. To try to read what he’s thinking. Not that he’s easy to read at all. The only time I can sense his emotions is when he’s angry. To be fair, it’s what I have the most experience with so far.