Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
He’s surprised to see me. I’m just as surprised to see him, and crying to boot. “Old Jerry?”
“Emma? What the fuck are you doing back?” He swipes at his lined face then runs a hand down his beard, sitting up. “You’re here to kill him, aren’t you?” His shoulders sag. “Good. Bastard needs killing.”
I lower my gun slightly. “Jerry, what happened here? Where’d everyone go?”
“Go?” He begins to laugh, his voice taking on a hysterical edge. “No one went anywhere. They’re all dead except for me.”
I swallow hard. “Dead? All of them?”
“All of them,” Old Jerry confirms, wiping at his sweating brow with a pudgy hand. “Fed ’em to dragons.”
Bait, Zohr confirms in my thoughts. But the females cannot be brought to sanity. Not like I was.
I turn toward my dragon. No?
They must be conquered in order to give in to the mating request. A female would approach a male and then initiate an attack, expecting him to attack in return. Only if he conquers her is he deemed worthy of mating with her.
Eesh. And if he doesn’t?
Then it is one less weakling to be bred.
The dragon form of Darwinism, I guess. Kinda ruthless, but I guess it makes sense for a warrior race. It also explains why there’s nothing left of Azar’s men but a few splatters on the pavement. I guess he lured them in close enough and was somehow able to hook into their minds. Terrible for both human and dragon. “And you’re next?” I ask Jerry, nudging him with my shoe.
He shakes his head, trembling. “I told him he needed someone to cook and keep the place tidy. Azar don’t like messes.”
Well, that explains why the interior of this place—even this room—is so clean. A very terrified Old Jerry is housekeeping within an inch of his shitty life. I have no doubt he bargained his way into safety over someone else, because that’s how Azar’s crew works. Throw someone else under the bus, just as long as it isn’t you. That’s how you survive—by stepping on others.
I don’t know if I feel pity for Old Jerry or disgust. He swipes at his face again, wet from either sweat or tears—or both—and gives me a pitiful look under his mop of stringy gray hair.
What do you want to do with him? Zohr asks. Shall I change to battle-form and devour him?
Ick. No, babe. I’d wonder if you had bits of Old Jerry in your mouth every time I kissed you, and I like kissing you far too much. But he’s got a point. Old Jerry’s a piece of shit no matter how you look at it. We can’t let him go. He’s still Team Azar. You don’t turn your back to someone like that. He could show up again a year from now and make our lives hell. He could turn around and murder a mom and her kids for their shelter. He has no scruples.
I raise my gun to his head.
Old Jerry starts to cry again. He closes his eyes. “Make it quick, girl.”
Fuck. I stare at him, his greasy forehead an inch from the barrel of my weapon. I know he’s a bad man. I’ve seen him do bad things. I’ve heard him talk about worse things. I know letting him go is a mistake. I know it. I know this is the smart thing to do. Jack would have no qualms about this.
I swallow hard and wait for my survival instinct to kick in. For self-preservation to make me pull the trigger and put this man down so he can’t threaten me and mine in the future. Jack would look at me in disgust for my hesitation right now.
Jack took you and your brother in, did he not?
Zohr’s gentle words are like a splash of cold water. He’s right. Jack might have talked a big game, but he had a soft spot, just like anyone else. That’s what makes us human. He couldn’t abandon two kids in need, and I can’t kill Old Jerry in cold blood. Doing so would make me no better than Azar.
I lower my gun. “Get your bag and get out of here. Never come back.”
He opens his eyes and stares at me in surprise. “You…you mean it?”
“Go before I change my mind,” I warn him, and nod at the door.
He scrambles to his feet and grabs a bag at the end of the bed. He stuffs a few things in there—including a titty mag—while glancing back at me and Zohr. “I don’t suppose you…”
Zohr growls low in his throat, and it manages to sound just as menacing in human form as it does in dragon form.
Old Jerry goes pale. “Right.” He shoves a pair of shoes onto his feet without bothering to lace them and grabs his bag, then rushes out the door.