Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Schubert’s limp body drops to the floor, and something inside me breaks, detaches, and shrivels away. My ears hear him thump against the wood floor. My eyes trace the awkward, unmoving bend in his spine. But my mind refuses to accept it. He’s not dead. He’s not. He can’t die.
The floor rises up and slams against my knees. I’m screaming, but there’s a palm over my mouth. I’m crawling and reaching, but the heavy weight on my back pins me down. I’m sobbing, but I don’t feel the tears. Determination drives me, my arms straining for my little broken kitty, aching to hold him. He needs me to comfort him, to fix him.
But his head’s at the wrong angle. Eyes open. Not moving. Looking but not seeing. Oh God, why won’t he move?
The sane part of my brain knows. But I bury it, focusing all of my strength on reaching him, desperate to shake him awake, to hear his purr, to see him shift those unblinking eyes.
Until the press of hard flesh probes between my legs.
Dead, chilling darkness sits on my senses. Numbing the hand on my hip. Lightening the chest on my back. Muting the sound of hungry breaths.
“Scriabin,” I sob, fingers stretching and bumping against the soft pad of a kitty paw. “Scriabin.”
Just a few more inches, and I’ll be able to pull Schubert into my arms.
The forceful pressure against my core adjusts, realigning with the ring of muscle in my ass. I squeeze my eyes shut. Paying attention to my body will bring agonizing pain, so I concentrate on the notes in my head, the dissonant sonata, the deadening dark where I can hold my kitty.
Fight, Ivory. Emeric’s voice shatters through my mind. Fight and fucking win.
The erection pushes against my barrier, searing my nerve-endings. I twist my neck and sink my teeth into the flesh of Lorenzo’s bicep. Hard.
He bellows and rears back his arm.
Just as his fist flies toward me, Shane’s frantic voice echoes from somewhere downstairs. “Lorenzo! Man, where are you?”
The punch connects with my face.
I idle the GTO at the gate and punch in my code. With all the neighbors at work, the street is deserted and quiet. I don’t like quiet. It makes my instincts prickle with paranoia.
No doubt my nerves are related to the gamble in canceling my afternoon classes. But since my dad’s delayed at the clinic, I claimed a family emergency, consequences be damn, and picked up her prescriptions on the way home.
When the gate opens, I follow the driveway around the back of the estate, wondering if Ivory hears the rumble of the engine.
I slam on the brakes. What the—?
An old black Honda is parked near the back door. Unfamiliar. Unoccupied. No tags.
My stomach hardens into ice. Ivory.
I don’t breathe until I’m in the house. The alarm isn’t armed.
The next breath doesn’t come until I reach the kitchen. Footsteps on the second floor.
I race through the living room, every cell in my body hyperalert. Who the fuck is here?
“Lorenzo, he’s in the driveway!” A man’s voice echoes upstairs. “Where are you?”
Shane. My blood runs cold as I sprint toward the foyer. Did he say Lorenzo? How is that possible?
Lorenzo’s in my fucking house.
With Ivory.
Rage propels me up the stairs, every step an opponent between me and her. I climb faster, taking two…three stairs at a time.
“The fuck?” Shane roars from the direction of my bedroom. “Get the fuck off her!”
No! Oh, Jesus, fuck, no! Urgency fuses into my muscles, pushing me faster, harder, locking my jaw. I can’t hear her. Why can’t I hear her?
I hurdle the last stair, but the remaining distance feels like it’s forcing my heart to explode out of my chest. The landing is too big, the hall too long. I’m too far away. I never should’ve left. I failed her, and I’m fucking fuming in my regret. Goddamn shaking in my desperation to reach her.
I follow the sounds of rising shouts. Almost there. A few more steps. I rush through the doorway, my focus zooming in on the far side of the bedroom.
Ivory stands motionless in my t-shirt. Blood on her lips. Expression empty. Schubert in her arms. Dead.
Shane’s balled fists. Wounds on Lorenzo’s face and arm. His zipper open.
Each millisecond snapshot sears into me with a viciousness that staggers my steps.
No one notices me.
I’m outnumbered, unarmed, and over-fucking-wrought with fury. Everything inside me pulls toward Ivory, but I fight it, refusing to look at her or think about her. If I do, I’ll lose my fucking shit.
Sticking to the edge of the room, I close the distance. Ivory stands a few feet away from the face-off between Shane and Lorenzo.
“Did you rape her, motherfucker?” Shane throws a punch at Lorenzo and misses his dodging head. “She was telling the truth all this time?”