Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Well, we’ve got time to get reacquainted,” he says, checking his watch as he steps toward me and takes me roughly by the arm.
I don’t even think then. I can’t. If he gets me out of this place, he’ll take me back to Felix. Or back to another man like Petrov. And I can’t do that again. I’d rather die than do that again.
So when he tugs, I let him, and I propel myself into him hard opening the blade and positioning it as I slam into his chest.
He’s surprised. Confused. I can’t tell. Maybe both.
And then comes a loud bang from inside. A door crashing open, boots of what sounds like a dozen men. Miguel’s soldiers turn to look behind them, but I don’t care about them. I push the small blade of the Swiss Army knife harder into Miguel’s soft belly.
He looks down between us, puts his hand over mine, pulls the knife out and squeezes my wrist. The knife clatters to the floor. When he opens his palm, it’s bloody. And when he looks back up at me it’s with a rage in his eyes that I recognize.
But he’s still got me, and I can’t run.
“You stupid little bitch.”
He shoves me backward, but he’s injured, and he stumbles into me. My scream is muffled by the sound of gun shots. I fall to the floor taking Miguel with me, his grip still a vise around my arm.
I can see the knife with its bright orange grip. I reach for it but can’t quite reach it. Miguel kneels up over me, trapping me between his thighs and I scream when he makes a fist to punch me. I scream and close my eyes, covering my face, remembering how much his fists hurt.
But the blow doesn’t come.
It doesn’t come and a moment later, his weight is gone, and I open my eyes to find Dante standing over me. The look on his face fierce and furious. An avenging angel. He throws Miguel backward against the wall hard and advances on him as I scramble away. Dante draws his arm back and punches Miguel in the face with a ferocity that makes me scream. Miguel’s head snaps back. Dante doesn’t look at me when I scream. And he doesn’t stop. He does it again and again and again until both men are on the floor. Miguel is on his back, arms at his sides, legs unmoving. His head at an unnatural angle. I wonder if the first hit didn’t break his neck.
Dante keeps beating him, though, pummeling him. And I realize he’s saying something as he punches him. Curses muttered under his breath, as blood from the dead man splatters up onto his face, as he slows down, worn out. Miguel is unrecognizable when Matthaeus finally comes into the room and forces Dante off.
Matthaeus looks at me, at the blood on my hand. At the dead man.
I watch Dante as he leans against the bed, knuckles red and raw, blood and sweat steaking his face.
I watch him as his gaze moves from the dead man, to the discarded knife, to me. And I can’t read him. Can’t read what I see on his face. But I do see how fury darkens the green of his visible eye.
Matthaeus moves toward Miguel’s body. Dante never looks away from me, his gaze growing more intense, more charged. More angry.
“No ID. Nothing,” Matthaeus says.
I’m the first to break the lock of our eyes. I look at Matthaeus. “He’s one of Felix’s soldiers. Miguel Alvarez.” I shift my gaze to the dead man. “He’s the one who killed Lizzie.” God. To say it out loud.
The room somehow grows colder.
Dante gets to his feet, uses the back of his hand to wipe his face. It just smears blood and sweat though. He comes to stand in front of me and I’m reminded again that he’s not the boy I knew, but a man. This man. This hardened killing machine.
I shudder.
He crouches down, puts his hands on my jaw and turns my face a little. He looks at something then brushes my cheek, I guess wiping away blood, before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He takes both of my hands inside his, looks at the back of them, then at my palms. With his thumb he smears Miguel’s blood across one.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“We need to wash your hands.”
I nod again and he helps me stand.
“We should move,” Matthaeus says. “I don’t know how they found us, but we need to go.”
“A minute,” Dante says, walking me toward the bedroom door.
“Wait!” I call out.
He stops and I slip my hand from his and go back to pick up the bloody Swiss army knife.
I feel Dante’s gaze on me when I wipe it on Miguel’s pant leg. When I straighten, I look down at his dead body once more. And I kick it. Kick him hard in the shins, then his thighs and finally between his legs. I kick and I kick and I kick. And it feels good. It feels so fucking good to hurt him.