Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 147891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
I push off the ground, whipping my gun out and chasing him. They don’t get far. He tackles her, and I taste nothing but bitter rage as he pins my mate to the ground.
In the air, he raises a dagger—the same one Korah had to my throat.
“NO! Let her go!” I shout, running faster. He looks back at me with a menacing glare, and with a bloody sneer, he brings the dagger down and stabs Willow in the chest.
Chapter 42
WILLOW
The pain surmounts the fear.
Garrett looks down at me with empty, wicked eyes, and I’m left wondering how he went from the man who brought me pastries and coffees in the morning, to the man now trying to kill me.
A flash of black appears and tackles him to the ground, knocking him off of me. Garrett was still holding the dagger and it rips out of my chest, making me scream.
I clutch my chest where the wound is, hardly able to breathe. Blood builds up to my throat, and I try coughing, but that only makes the pain worse. From the cough, blood splatters on my face. My hand grips tighter around the gold object in my hand, hoping the sharp edges of it will steal the pain away, but it doesn’t. When I turn my head, I spot Caz on top of Garrett.
He’s taken the dagger from him and is stabbing him repeatedly in the chest, neck, and stomach. The blood flings off the dagger with each stab, Caz roaring with anger, his face crimson with rage. Then he plunges the knife into his throat, and Garrett bleeds but he doesn’t die.
With a loud grunt, Garrett manages to shove Caz off of him while he’s in his state of fury and escapes, fleeing toward a line of trees with a limp. Blood drips off his body, leaving a trail, and Caz shoots up, about to chase after him, until his fury wanes and he remembers.
Willow. I hear his voice, loud and clear. I want to savor it as darkness dims my line of sight.
He rushes back to me as I touch the wound in my chest.
“No, Willow. Please, no.” He assesses the wound, even starts to touch it, but snatches his hands away just as quickly, as if touching it will cause me to die faster.
I hiccup more blood. I guess I’m going to die. We got here for nothing. All of this was for nothing.
“It wasn’t for nothing. Don’t say that. I won’t let you die.” Caz scoops me into his arms and crosses the grassy field with blood stains on his face. As he goes, I hear hooves pounding into the ground, and for a second I think it’s his heartbeat. And then I see the horses galloping in the distance.
Caz stops in his tracks, holding me tighter as the horses near us. On the horses are women dressed in tribal gear with white paint on their faces. Their clothes are ivory, their sashes and weapons laced with brown. All of them are strong with tight grimaces on their faces and weapons in their hands. The weapons range from swords and curved spears to bows and arrows. A line of the women already has their bows drawn at us, arms angled, ready to release their arrows. A set next to them carries gilded shields with a large K engraved on the center.
Caz shifts on his feet, and the wound in my chest aches even more. I clutch a handful of his shirt, wheezing.
“Which one of you is Hassha?” he asks as I drop my head. I clutch the gold piece of crown Korah gave me tighter in my other hand.
Through my periphery, I notice one of the women hop off her horse and march toward us. She shoves Caz on the chest, and Caz stumbles backward.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps. “We need help, don’t you see that?”
“Who are you to be asking for Hassha?” the woman demands. I cut my eyes at her. She’s a large, brown-skinned woman with thick, muscular arms and white paint covering half of her face. Her dark hair is braided into thick cornrows with miniature gold chains threaded throughout.
“I’m Caz Harlow, monarch of Blackwater. I need your help. Please.” The last word comes out hard, forced, but desperate. He hates asking for help. “My mate, she’s hurt. She was stabbed by a man who is now running free.”
“Who sent you here?” the woman demands. “How did you cross our borders?”
“Korah did. She told us to ask for Hassha.”
Just then, another woman walks through and murmurs something in the dark-skinned woman’s ear. She raises a hand, gesturing to the other women, and they lower their bows.
Taller than Caz, with bronze skin and white paint on her face, is the person who I assume is Hassha. The paint that stands out most is the large crescent moon on her forehead, as well as the tiny stars peppered across her cheekbones. A single white line runs from the bridge of her petite nose to the tip. Her eyes are two different colors—the left one a sapphire blue, the other hazel, and her hair is the whitest I’ve ever seen, like snow and textured like silk. Atop her head is a crown, nestled in the braids of her hair. She’s not dressed like the other women. She wears a white chiffon dress with gold armor bands around her wrists and ankles, though she does carry a sword on her back. The gold crown on her head appears broken on one side. Ah. I see now.