Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
His hand came back, slapping over my mouth as his other went around my waist, lifting me up and off the ground, leaving me peddling in the air as he carried me away.
A couple things hit me all at once.
One, he was so much stronger than he looked.
Two, he’d been really careful not to make any comments or moves until we were far enough down the street that the cameras from The Bog and the pool hall wouldn’t catch the attack.
Careful.
Calculated.
Like he’d been plotting it.
Likely since he’d followed me out of the bar to find me with Jass.
That was the sound I’d heard.
Not rats.
I never thought I would think this, but I would have taken the rats over Patrick any damn day of the week.
The arm around my middle crushed inward, making my bruised ribs scream even worse than they already were from being at work and then with Jass.
Even if his hand wasn’t over my mouth, the pain was blinding enough that I wasn’t sure I would be able to cry out for help.
Patrick seemed to pay no mind to the way my legs kicked and my hand clawed at his forearm, trying to get free.
He just kept walking.
Like I weighed nothing more than a feather.
I dangled there helplessly, my mind racing from one horrific scenario to the next.
But there was one image that just kept trying to surface.
My phone flying from my hand.
In Shady Valley.
In Vegas.
“Thought you would learn your lesson the last time,” he added, making my stomach twist so hard I was surprised the bile didn’t rise up my throat.
No.
No no no.
Absolutely freaking not.
“But, no, you just keep letting him use you like a fucking slut. You like that, do you? Being treated like a slut? I could do that to you, you know,” he added as he finally got to his car, releasing my stomach just long enough to bleep the locks and disengage the trunk.
I was just trying to twist when he shoved me forward, slamming me against the corner of the car next to the trunk, stealing my breath so that even when his hand left my mouth for a second, I couldn’t cry out, I could barely even try to suck in a breath.
Before I could even recover, though, duct tape was slapping over my mouth. Literally slapping. The sting seemed to pull me out of the pain in my side from being rammed into his car.
Even as I tried to yank away, though, I felt the coldness around one wrist, then my sling being yanked off, and my arm wrenched backward so he could slip the cold metal on the other wrist.
And then the tightening.
Sealing my fate.
Handcuffs.
Handcuffs and duct tape.
Like a damned true crime story.
I was in the middle of my own one, it seemed.
The clueless girl tricked by a close family friend, not knowing his true intentions until it was too late.
What would the tone of my story be when strangers told it six weeks or six months from now?
Would I be a body found behind a dumpster after being raped and beaten for one night?
Would I be held and abused continually for weeks or months until my body gave out?
Would they ever find who did it to me?
No.
I couldn’t let my mind go there.
Even as I brushed those thoughts away, though, another equally awful one replaced it.
After I was gone, either held or dead, would my brothers continue to be clueless? Would they brush shoulders with their sister’s abductor and abuser?
It wasn’t a crazy thought.
All of us—me included—had been standing right beside him, trusting him, sharing light conversation, meals, and laughter with him.
When he’d been the one all along, it seemed.
Why?
That was always the question, wasn’t it.
Why.
Why him.
Why her.
What could have changed the situation?
Those were always the questions the families were left pondering.
Even as I thought it, though, I was being lifted and tossed inside the trunk.
The slamming made my heart sink.
Because this wasn’t some big city where I could kick out the taillights and try to grab some attention.
This was Shady Valley after the bar closed.
No one would be on the road.
No one would see me.
A helpless little sob caught in my throat as the car roared to life and pulled off.
I couldn’t get hopeless.
That wasn’t going to help.
I didn’t live alone.
Someone was going to notice I was missing. And soon.
I had five big, strong, determined-ass brothers. I had Nyx. I had Jass. I had the whole town who would want to help find me.
He couldn’t get away with this, right?
He would be the last person to have seen me.
There was no getting around that.
My brothers would have to question him, right?
Would they hear the lies? Would they see the evil in his eyes? Or was Patrick just too good of an actor, too accustomed to wearing his mask of a nice, unassuming guy?