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)
When I look up, he’s studying me and there’s that feeling again. Something familiar and warm. Like I’m safe.
“I knew you before. A long time ago. I used to bandage your knees when you cut them. Tie your shoelaces.”
He said he’s Dante.
I remember Dante. Remembering the feeling that belongs to that memory. But he’s lying. He’s not Dante. He can’t be. Dante is dead. They’re all dead. I saw their bodies. Saw the blood. I don’t think I’ll ever get the sight of it out of my head. Ever forget the terror in Lizzie’s eyes when her killer advanced on her. She was just a little girl. We both were. She didn’t even have a chance to scream.
“Mara. I need you to relax, okay?”
I blink, remember where I am. I’m hyperventilating.
He lets me go. I move away from him. But I don’t run to the exit. There’s no point. He’s right. Where would I go? Besides I’m outnumbered. Not to mention they have guns.
“Matthaeus,” the one claiming to be Dante says as I sink onto the floor and hug my legs. I close my eyes, hide my face in my knees and think about the song Flora taught me. It helps a little at least. If I can see the words and hear her sing the song. I just have to see the words and listen for her voice.
“Mara.” Dante’s voice sounds urgent. He’s close but I don’t open my eyes. Not even when I feel his big hand cup the back of my head. He’s gentle. But some pretend to be gentle and those are the ones you really have to watch out for. They’re the ones who hurt you the most.
“Here.” Another man says. I still don’t open my eyes.
“Just a pinch, Mara. It’ll help relax you and when you wake up, I’ll be there with you,” he says as the hand that was cupping my head pushes it slightly to the side.
I register his words then. They creep in along the edges of the song, and I realize what he means. What he’s going to do.
The pinch. An injection.
The one that makes sure I don’t fight.
My eyelids fly open, but when I try to push my head back and get away, his grip tightens and a moment later, I feel the prick of the needle and I know it’s over. I’m done for.
3
Dante
Her body relaxes, arms falling away. I wrap her in my arms as she slouches. I stand. She weighs nothing. Like a little bird. A broken little bird.
Dried blood smears her face. Her lips are parted just slightly, hair hanging over my arm. It’s long and needs to be washed. Golden strands are crusted with the blood of the asshole I killed in that bedroom. One of her arms rests on her stomach and the other hangs limp.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“You had no choice. It’s better if she sleeps anyway, given what we need to do. When she wakes up, she’ll see she’s safe,” Matthaeus says. He’s been with me for the last five years. Cristiano hired him as a bodyguard when I couldn’t defend myself and he’s become a friend. Someone I trust.
“I don’t think it’s going to be as simple as that,” I tell him.
“When is anything simple?” he asks. Never when it comes to me, I think. “But you have her back. Get her settled then I need to look at your arm.”
“It’s nothing. The bullet grazed me. Idiots have bad aim.”
“Still.”
“Fine. After.” Matthaeus has some medical training which, given what we do, is a good thing.
The men start the music again, but it’s not as loud. I carry her into the back bedroom. My room. It’s the quietest and the most comfortable. Matthaeus lives here too, and the men have rooms when they need them. It’s our base in the northeast. My uncle used to own the building. I should burn it down, except that I like this one.
But wait. No. He’s not my uncle. I have to get used to calling him dad.
A feeling of disgust turns my stomach at the memory of Uncle David. The only image I can ever conjure up anymore is that of him sitting at the desk in that hotel room. His hands pinned to it with a steak knife and a letter opener, head blown half off.
I did that.
Patricide.
Although does it count as that if you hadn’t really processed that the man you killed was your father, not your uncle? That he’d been lying to you all your life.
That he’d raped your mother.
Which explains some shit at least. Not that I can blame mom. She tried to love me. Maybe she even did.
Fuck.
My steps slow as I grit my teeth, steel my spine. I shove those thoughts aside. Now isn’t the time to wallow. I need to take care of her. She needs me. And I haven’t been there for the last fifteen years when she really needed me. I need to get my head out of my ass and be here for her.