Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
The man who shot at him originally takes aim once again, right at Cruce’s head.
“No,” I screech, now trying to lunge for that man. The gun goes off before I can make it to him, and when I whirl around to the front of the boat, Cruce is gone.
I dash for the edge, intent on trying to leap over once again. I have to save Cruce.
A large, meaty arm wraps around my middle and hauls me back. I strain against his hold, searching the darkened water as we pull away from the lighted dock. Cruce never reappears, and hot tears start leaking from my eyes.
It doesn’t seem to register that I’ve been kidnapped, nor that I’m now heading off to a fate that could be worse than death.
Doesn’t really matter, though.
Not if Cruce is dead.
“You’re a feisty one,” the man holding me says appreciatively. “But that spells problems down the road. You’re going to need to take a nap for me.”
I have no clue what that means. I desperately search the water, seeing nothing but the wake left by the boat.
And then I feel a small prick in my arm. I try to keep my eyes open, hoping to see Cruce’s head break the surface near the dock, but it’s receding from my view. Whatever that fucker just shot into me works fast, and my head lolls until it falls back on the man’s shoulder.
“Blow it,” someone says, and I wonder what that means.
There’s an explosion, a wave of hot air caresses over me, and I watch almost dispassionately as the boat we’d had docked blazes into a ball of fire.
I close my eyes and fall under, not really caring if I wake back up.
♦
“Let’s go,” someone says from the doorway. I spin away from the window where I’d been thinking about Cruce.
And crying.
I can’t believe he’s dead. Part of me refuses to believe it, but the other part knows what I saw. My heart hurts so bad, and I feel like I’m dying.
I’ve been in a beautiful bedroom in someone’s exceptionally expansive mansion. I’d woken up here a few hours ago, at least by account of the battery clock on the bedside table.
I know I’m in a mansion because I can see out the bedroom window on the second floor, and I’m actually in a wing that juts off the main portion. There’s an identical wing on the far side, done in brown brick with cream trim. The grounds—rolling hills and pastures—look far-reaching and extensive, not another house in sight.
I have no clue if I’m even in the United States, but the style of the house does seem to be typical American. In addition, my captors all had American accents so through my logic and deductive reasoning, I believe I’m on home soil.
I recognize the man at my door. He’s big, burly, and dressed in camo fatigues with a black t-shirt. My guess is he’s former military, by virtue of his bearing and command, but the longer hair and goatee means he’s private contract.
He’s the man who had threatened to hit me, and he shot Cruce as he was hanging on the edge of the boat. He’s scarier in daylight, with a jagged scar running down from the bottom of his right eye to his jawline.
“Where are we going?” I ask, crossing my arms over my stomach in stubborn refusal to be a good prisoner.
“We’re going to ‘shut the fuck up and obey me or I will hurt you,’” he growls, then points toward the door. “Now let’s go.”
I believe him. I believe he’ll hurt me. By the look in his eyes, it’s obvious he’d relish it.
I want to bolt for the door, but I force myself to walk slowly to defy him in some small way without getting myself hurt in the process.
After I make it safely past him, he gives me a rough shove through the door. I stumble, my elbow knocking against the doorframe.
Asshole.
I rub it gingerly as I move down the hallway in my bare feet. I’m still wearing the t-shirt I had on when they abducted me, but someone had thrown a pair of gray sweatpants over the foot of the bed I’d woken up in. They still had a price tag on them.
Surprisingly, they were my size and fit perfectly. I didn’t want to be grateful for it, but I was. I’d felt way too exposed in just a t-shirt with no panties underneath, particularly because that asshole walking behind me had made a veiled threat to fuck me in the boat.
I shudder even thinking about it, but I keep my chin lifted high.
“Down the stairs,” he directs, and I’m thankful he doesn’t touch me again.
When we reach the first floor, he moves past me. I dutifully follow him to a set of double doors stained dark. He gives a slight knock, waits a moment, then opens the right door.