Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Two days.” My mouth drops. “Diamond woke you to take more pain meds and you went straight back out.” I don’t even remember that. “How are you feeling?” That’s a loaded question.
“Like I got thrown around by a big, scary asshole.” I chuckle, but there’s no humor there. My throat is dry. My stomach pangs with hunger.
The muscle in his jaw flickers, his hands curling into fists. “I want Doc to come in and look at you.”
“No.” I shift on the mattress, pulling the sheet tighter against me. “I’m fine. Well…I will be.” I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.
“Rogue.” He swallows, and my eyes take in the movement of his throat. The veins in his neck pulse and oddly, I find it sexy as hell. “I want to ask you something, and I don’t want you to be afraid or ashamed or…”
“What is it?”
Torment stiffens his posture. “Did he…did he…”
“No,” I grit out, my tone full of conviction, my eyes bright with truth.
His eyes lift to mine, and my heart stills. They’re glassy. His bottom lip protrudes, making him appear so young and vulnerable. Not the scary killer I know he can be. “Callan.” I reach out and stroke my palm down his face. “I promise. Larkin just roughed me up.” I know how rare it must be to see Callan this exposed. Being a stone-cold bastard, people often forget his heart beats the same as ours. I’ve felt the flutter against my cheek when in his arms. He doesn’t need to know how close it came to Larkin crossing that line.
“It fucking hurts to look at you. I’m so fucking sorry. I just wish I could take this away for you.” A lump grows in the back of my throat, and my heart swells, almost bursting.
“It’s just some bruising and scrapes. It will heal.”
Tapping a finger to my forehead, he says, “Will this?” I stifle a laugh but let out a little snort. There’s so much bullshit trauma in my head. This is just another thing I’ll overcome and learn to live with.
“He’s dead. I’m not.” I shrug, gasping in a sharp breath when pain expands over my shoulder. The wound needs a few stitches. It’s something I can do myself when I’m feeling less like death.
“What is it?” he asks, panicking as he hovers his hands over me without touching me.
“Nothing, it’s fine.”
“Rogue?” He scowls, moving away and accidentally kicking a bag at the end of the bed.
“What’s my stuff doing here?” I frown.
Turning his gaze to where I’m staring, he says, “I had Tim bring it here and check you out of that motel. It’s a shit hole and not safe.”
Irritation flares. “Don’t you think I should have made that decision and gotten my own belongings?”
“No.” He shakes his head and cuts his hand through the air.
My fingers clinch the fabric of the sheet. The photo I keep of him burning in my brain. I hope he hasn’t seen it.
“I saw the bullets.” His dark eyes bore into me, and my heart leaps.
“So, not only did you have someone bring it here, you went through it?” I bite out.
He doesn’t deny that fact. “I’m going to help you find the person responsible for your sister. And take them apart piece by piece.”
Thud.
“Still won’t admit it’s your dad,” I hedge.
Silence clings to the air until it’s almost too intense to breathe.
“I agree it’s a weird coincidence they both got attacked on the same night, but I’m sorry, Rogue. You don’t know him like I do. He wouldn’t do that to a young girl.”
I never thought I’d kill a cop, but here we are. “We all have it in us to kill, Callan.”
He stands, hands on his hips, the light casting over him. He’s so beautiful with that impeccable jawline. They should clone him so everyone can own one.
“We may all have it in us to kill, Rogue, but what happened to your sister wasn’t just murder, was it? It was rage, cruelty.”
Cold hands snake up my spine, wrapping around my throat and slowly tightening. “You think it sounds personal?” I choke out.
“It looks personal. Was she seeing anyone?”
“No. Not one person.” Harley was a free spirit—and that meant with her body too. She liked to party, to meet people, and to live.
“I have contacts looking into active serial killers,” he announces, nonchalant, like that’s normal. A serial killer.
“Seriously? But…if she got targeted and it wasn’t personal, why mutilate her tattoo?”
He clasps the back of his neck and rubs there, pacing the end of the bed. “Sometimes with serial killers, they keep things from their victims, trophies, souvenirs—something to relive the memory of the kill for them—something to try to own their victims in some way. They become part of—”
“No.” I hold my hand out to stop him. “The animal who did this doesn’t get to keep any part of her.”