Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 131926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
That fucking asshole. Who does he think he is coming at me with all that ‘I got you those brass knuckles and I know you better than you know yourself’ bullshit? Does he actually think I’m being a misleading whore who’s going to destroy all his friends?
Screw him. King and Cruz know exactly what’s going down between us and not only do they agree with it, they fucking love it just as much as I do. What is with the guys here being too fucking stubborn to just take what they want? Why do they need to make this so complicated?
The fury burns brighter, and the more I stand here, confused and torn over Grayson, the more that itch builds within me. I have to hit something. I have to work it out of my system.
I push off the wall and clench my jaw as I start storming toward the other end of the house. I don’t venture down here often, but there’s one room that I’ve been dying to get into since the second we got home.
I shove my shoulder into the door and twist the handle so violently that it opens with a bang and rebounds off the adjoining wall.
I stride through the darkened home office and grab hold of the sliding bookshelf. Pushing it out of the way, I instantly hear the sound of fists pummeling against flesh.
The sound is like a beacon drawing me in.
My shoes hit the top step, and as they do, the pummeling fists stop. Dread sinks heavily into my stomach. I know exactly what I’m going to find down here, but for some reason, I don’t feel ready.
I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.
I hit the bottom step to find Carver standing by a long workbench with an old rag in his hand, wiping off the blood that stains his warm skin. The room is dark with a single hanging light that gently rocks from side to side, right above Sam Delacourt.
His wrists are bound and hooked over a big meat hook with his body bruised and bloodied, his eyes frantically searching for an escape, not that I can really see his eyes through all the swelling.
It’s fucking creepy down here, and judging by the drainage grate built into the ground, I’d dare say this room has been used a few times before.
I swallow over the lump in my throat and raise my gaze to meet Carver’s. It’s the first time I’ve been down here, and I don’t miss the way he searches my eyes, waiting to see if I’m about to freak out. But that’s not going to happen. All he’ll see is the crazed desperation that Grayson caused.
Carver just watches me for a long moment before nodding and reaching back. His fingers curl around the top of a baseball bat, and in a brief magical moment, he steps into me and presses the baseball bat against my chest.
I take it eagerly, and as that familiar itch burns brightly within me, I turn my ferocious stare on Sam. I grip the bat at the top, and as I stalk toward Sam, I let the tip of the bat drag against the concrete floor. The metallic sound instantly grinds against my nerves, but I stick with it, knowing that it’s so much worse for Sam.
As I step in front of him, a twisted grin stretches across my face. “Time’s up, motherfucker.” And just like that, I rear back and let the bat fly.
It smashes into his ribs over and over again, hitting the exact same spot. I let every bit of my anger out. The frustration toward Carver, the confusion from Grayson, the fear of the dark, the faceless monsters, and the hands touching my body.
I swing the bat with everything that I’ve got, hitting his arm, breaking his wrist, fracturing his shin.
I do it for the girls that he’s hurt, the girls that cry for their mothers every single night, the families that think their sweet little babies are gone.
My breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps, panting for oxygen, but I keep pushing myself, hitting harder and harder and not relenting, not daring to give up because every one of those names in that ledger deserves this.
Sam cries out in agony with every hit of the bat, and every time he does, I push myself harder. I hit harder. I pick up my pace. I give it my all knowing that I’ll never get this chance again. Once he’s gone, I’ll have to live with what I’ve done, and if I don’t make him suffer and beg for death, then I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
Minutes pass when exhaustion creeps up on me and my hands fall to my knees as the metal bat clatters to the ground. I physically can’t keep going, and as I take a moment to evaluate the mess of a man that hangs before me, I know that I gave it my all.