Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Run.
But I wasn't running.
I was advancing.
Striking.
Taking the blows back.
My cheekbone exploded with pain as his fist collided, the sensation ricocheting until it took over the entire left side of my head.
My lip split when his thumbnail caught it, making my mouth fill with the metallic taste of my own blood.
He stumbled back, trying to get slightly more out of my reach, though his own would still be able to make contact with his longer arms.
It also meant his feet lost contact with the bathmat.
And this idiot didn't dry them off.
The smooth tile of his floor was an unforgiving foe.
He went down hard, arms flailing for something to break his fall, but the room was too wide, the vanity two feet too far to the side to be of any use.
My heartbeat seemed to skitter into overdrive as I watched him go down, knowing this was it.
This was the end.
If he was down.
That was my chance.
If I wanted to take him down, this was my only chance.
I moved toward him, my hand going for my knife.
I could feel it reassuringly in my palm, familiar as my own switchblade, the knife sharp enough to peel back a single layer of skin.
And I wanted that.
Hell, I was wicked, evil enough to want to flay him for what he had done.
Why then couldn't I convince my hand to raise?
Why couldn't I drive the knife into his chest or throat like I had sat awake in bed imagining for months?
This was what my life had been about.
Revenge.
Vengeance.
Righting a wrong.
Bringing justice to someone who would never face it otherwise.
He deserved to die, damnit.
And I wanted him to know why.
I wanted him to know it was for Letha.
As if sensing my dilemma, his lips curled into a sneer.
"She always said you were like a turtle," he told me, and I stiffened both inside and out. My brain recoiled away from the idea that he knew that. He knew she said that about me. "Got that hard shell to cover all the soft insides. Came here to kill me, but can't fucking do it. Cowardice must be a family trait, huh, Lenore?"
"Don't you ever fucking talk about her to me," I demanded, voice shaking.
Losing it.
I was losing it.
I trained for this.
I wanted this more than anything else, save for my sister back.
Why was I freezing?
"What you gonna do? Hit me in the throat again?" he taunted, moving to sit up. "Gonna need more than that, bitch. Yeah, that's what I thought," he said, reaching for his towel, pulling it back over his lap. I hadn't even noticed it came off.
I needed to raise my hand, then stab it down into him.
I needed to reach for the bag and hold it over his head.
I needed to do something.
But I was frozen.
Literally frozen on the spot.
I couldn't even force my legs to make me retreat toward the door, get the hell out of dodge.
"Family trait, huh? Fucking useless bitches. Can't do anything they set their minds to right. Bet you're a dead fucking fish in bed just like—"
He didn't get to finish that sentence.
Because right there, before my eyes, a boot slammed down on the side of his face, pinning it back down to the floor.
I knew that boot.
But I hadn't even seen him come in.
How had he gotten in?
How did he know I was even here?
Why was he here too?
"Right now would be a good fucking time to shut your mouth, frate," he growled. I had heard him say that word before to his friends, but never in that tone.
My eyes drifted up, finding him watching me, a darkness in those eyes I had never seen there before.
This wasn't the Edison, the man who taught me self-defense.
It wasn't the Edison who tried to charm me.
It wasn't the Edison who fucked me silly, and then called me on my bullshit.
And it damn sure wasn't the Edison who washed my hair, forced food into me, held me when I cried.
No.
This was Edison, the biker, the outlaw.
And, if I wasn't mistaken, the killer.
"Henchmen?" he asked, a mix of fearful and snide, a combination I didn't know how to interpret.
"Partly," Edison agreed, but was still watching me. "Knife?" he asked, jerking his chin toward it.
"I can't do it," I admitted, hating the weakness in my tone, hating myself as a whole for fucking up right in the last moment.
I wasn't having second thoughts.
I wanted him dead.
He deserved death.
If there was a hell, he deserved to burn down there for eternity as well.
I wasn't having a crisis of conscience.
I just couldn't do it.
I wanted to.
But I couldn't make my body follow through with my thoughts.
"I can't do it," I repeated, eyes a little pleading, shaking my head.
"But you want to," he clarified.
"He killed my sister."
Edison nodded, moving to stand next to me, allowing his boot to leave his face, reaching with one hand to hold mine, then reaching behind his back for a second.