Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113406 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Just as Charity pivoted to face her, Madisyn stabbed her claws deep into the sow’s gut, making her heave and double over in agony. She didn’t withdraw her claws. No, she curved them a little and thrust them higher. “One wrong move and I’ll fucking disembowel you—no lie.”
Charity grabbed Madisyn’s wrist, but she didn’t retaliate. She couldn’t move without doing major damage to her insides. Eyes fairly glowing with pain, she spat, “Bitch.”
“I know. But my kind aren’t known for their mercy.”
Fear glimmered in the sow’s eyes. “They’re right in what they say—pallas cats are crazy motherfuckers.”
“Only when shitheads have the nerve to pollute our presence.” Madisyn sighed sadly. “You should have let me pass. You didn’t. The pain knifing through you is really your own fault. Now, are we done here?”
Charity nodded vigorously.
“Good.” Madisyn withdrew her hand and sheathed her claws, watching as the sow slowly backed against the wall and slid down. As Madisyn quickly pulled on her top and her skirt, Leanna crawled over to Cady, who was still out cold, but she didn’t meet Madisyn’s eyes or try to stand.
Having retrieved her purse from the counter, Madisyn said, “Now, you’re all going to scoop yourselves off the floor, clean up the mess, and walk on out without causing a fuss. Then no one gets barred from the club, and your pride will remain intact. This unnecessary scene will be our little secret.”
After making a beeline for the door, Madisyn turned the lock, pulled it open, and found herself facing one of the security guards. Son of a bitch.
His eyes slid past her and widened. “What the fuck happened here?”
Madisyn licked her front teeth. “They tripped.”
Bracing his elbows on the bar, Bracken Slater took a long swig from his bottle, letting the cold liquid slide down his throat. The Velvet Lounge was always busy on weekends but less so on Sunday nights, which was why he preferred it then. The club had originally been known as the Black Velvet Lounge, but the pack had shortened the name on buying it. The music and atmosphere were as good as the beer. He might have been able to wind down . . . if it weren’t for the accusatory stare being directed his way.
He cast a sideways glance at the enforcer at his side. “You don’t have to babysit me, Jesse. I’m not going to get shitfaced and pick a fight.”
“I’m not moving from this stool until you assure me that my gut is wrong, and you’re not thinking of leaving the pack. You are, aren’t you?”
Bracken sighed. “No. I might go roaming for a while at some point, but I’m not officially leaving the pack.”
“Like roaming is nothing?” Jesse snorted. “Fuck that, Bracken. You’ve been pulling away from everyone. We all gave you space because that was what you needed. We thought you’d make your way back to us, but you haven’t. Leaving the pack for a while wouldn’t be the answer to anything. It would just be you punishing yourself.”
Bracken threw him an exasperated look. “I’m not looking to punish myself.”
“Being surrounded by your pack is the best thing for you right now. Walking away from us would be counterproductive and, as such, a kind of self-inflicted punishment.” The barstool scraped against the wooden floor as Jesse moved closer. “Any guilt you feel is senseless, Brack. It’s a normal part of the grieving process, but it’s senseless. What happened that day is not on you.”
Bracken guzzled down more of his beer. A person wouldn’t think that a family trip to a drive-in movie theater would end in death. They wouldn’t expect to hear the spatter of bullets or the roar of explosions. Wouldn’t expect to watch the people around them drop to the ground, crying out in pain.
He could still hear his family’s screams. Sometimes, he could even swear he smelled their blood. Mostly, he could still feel that moment when a bullet slammed into his back and out of his chest, and the baby cradled against him stopped crying. And Bracken had known the little boy was dead. Known that the sudden warmth on his chest wasn’t just his own blood. Known that when he looked down, he’d see fragments of brain and skull. And he had.
Afterward, he’d watched his mother and sister—the only members of his family who escaped the theater alive—fade away right in front of him. Neither had fought to survive the breaking of their mating bonds, and he couldn’t blame them for that.
Now, they were all gone. His parents, siblings, his sister’s mate, and his nephew were all dead, but Bracken was alive. And fuck if that made any sense to him. Hayden was only three months old. He’d barely lived. What was the point in someone being born if they didn’t even get the chance to live?