Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
The plan is to for Willow to go into the club and find exactly where Juniper and Killian are. Sure, my cousins could be in the caves, but if I know that sly bastard Rami, he could have them somewhere else, being tortured. Rowan and I could go in ourselves, but our faces are too recognizable, and to avoid a blood bath, it’s best to send a woman none of them have ever seen. That’s where Willow comes in. If she can’t fine Jun and Kill on her own, she can find Rami…and hopefully he’ll be swimming in enough arrogance to lead her straight to them.
We didn’t have much to work with for her. She’d left Whisper Grove in comfort clothes—a white shirt with soft gray pants. Rowan stopped along the way at a Ripple Hill shop so Willow could grab makeup, hair accessories, and a crop top. As she did, we kept watch by the car, the brim of our hats low and our fingers on the triggers of our guns, prepared for any surprises.
I glance back as she pulls the crop top over her head. Her eyes slide to mine after she digs in the bag for the makeup, and she pauses. I contemplate telling her never mind—that I’ll find another way to do this that doesn’t involve her, but instead, I look away, putting my focus out the window again. It’ll be fine. She’s a smart girl.
“I really am, though,” she says, and I roll my eyes. Mind’s wall. Mind’s wall.
Once Rowan finds a decent spot to hide the car, I use the blade of my knife to cut her pants and make them into shorts. Very short shorts.
“This is too much,” she says, covering her chest. “My ass is hanging out!”
“Honestly, it’s not enough,” Rowan counters, then presses his lips. I hate to agree with him. It’s not enough, really, but it will do, and as the thought crosses my mind, my eyes shift to Willow’s. She’s already looking at me, eyes wide, curious.
We call the Rippies pigs for a reason—they’re disgusting, and they have terrible hygiene, even the women. But the women get by with their assets—tits, ass, pussy. Whatever. They flaunt it, and it’s how they get what they want. And it’s how you’ll get what you want.
She shakes her head. Great.
After collecting as many guns as possible from the trunk, Rowan and I strapping up to the teeth, we move down an alley behind Rami’s Fight Club, one of the hottest spots in Ripple Hills. Rami’s Fight Club is where the Rippies meet up religiously for a drink, a dance, and bet money on fights in underground caves. They shout and holler as they watch two opponents tear at each other, breaking noses, biting flesh, ripping hair, and whatever else to incite violence.
The thought of it sinks into my core and a wave of nausea runs over me. The memories are impossible to forget—fists smashing into my face, arms locked around my throat, someone kicking my shin in, breaking it.
I close my eyes a moment and breathe, just like Manx taught me when I was younger, and it helps. But I remember the feeling—all of it. I swallow the bitter memories down and focus on the present. I have family to save. Memories be damned. And of course, when I turn to look at Willow, she’s already looking at me. She heard it all. Damn it. Mind’s wall, for fuck’s sake.
As we approach the end of the alley, we spot several guards surrounding the building. Some of them stand with their arms folded, deep frowns on their faces. Others are smoking, or whistling at women as they walk by.
“The basement entrance never has many guards,” Rowan says. “We can get in that way.”
I nod and he leads the way around a corner, going down a set of damp cement steps that need repairing and venturing through another dark alley. This alley is leaky and smells like cat piss. Willow follows me and I feel her breath on my skin as she stands closely. I try to ignore the warmth of it, the smell of her. I swear she’s becoming harder to disregard.
A light appears at the end of the alley, and deep voices echo, bouncing off the walls. Rowan stops, pressing his back to the wall with a grin. “It’s fucking showtime.”
“How many?” I whisper.
“Three. I’ve got it.”
Rowan leaves no room for hesitation. He pushes off the wall, his gun aimed in front of him, and rushes down the rest of the alley. I hear scuffling, thudding, men crying out in pain, and in a matter of minutes, Rowan is running back to us.
“Let’s go.”
I follow him to the end of the alley, my gun aimed in front of me. I lower it when I see three bloody bodies on the ground.