Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 113473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t erase what he saw.
Too late, too late, too late.
It was permanently etched into his memory.
He’d never forget that.
He’d never forget picturing Red being...
Being...
That roar he fought back, tried to muffle, escaped into the dead of the night. And it only fueled the flames, threw gas on the fire inside him.
He needed to get up, he needed to move. Get off his knees and get back down that mountain. And make a plan.
He needed a plan.
Because right now, he had no clear thoughts.
He had nothing but the urge for revenge running through him.
But he couldn’t move, he found himself crippled. Frozen. The unstoppable fury surging through him, burning white hot.
He wanted to destroy everything in that compound.
All of them.
Every fucking single one.
No one there deserved to breathe the same air as she did.
Not one.
A noise in the distance, a creak of a door, a racking of a shotgun, sank into his spinning brain.
Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled as he tried to move since he was blinded with his rage.
Move away from the sound.
Move away, not toward it.
You’ll fuckin’ get ‘em.
You’ll get ‘em.
They will fuckin’ pay.
Whoever did this will fuckin’ pay.
He forced himself to ignore his instinct, to right the wrong the Shirleys had done and to go into the woods instead. He paused every few yards to try to hear past the rush of his own blood in his ears. To hear if anyone followed.
He kept moving through the dark and the shadows until he stumbled over a tree root and fell into a tree.
Then he held onto that tree because everything began to spin out of control. Like a tornado, ready to wipe out everything in its path.
He pressed his forehead to the rough bark and tried to catch his breath. Tried to regain control.
He was in the middle of nowhere and he needed to find somewhere.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
He was lost.
He was so goddamn lost.
His chest heaved and he doubled over, throwing up. Expelling everything from his churning gut onto the forest floor.
Again and again.
Until he was empty.
All but the anger. That was what remained.
The fury. That was all he had left.
He had nothing to destroy so it would destroy him instead.
From the inside.
It would rip through him until there was nothing left of him. Until nothing recognizable remained.
Just an empty shell.
No heart. No soul.
Nothing.
A keen escaped him before he could control it and he used the tree to push himself upright.
Then he funneled all that anger and pain into one part of him in an attempt to rid himself of it.
Because if he destroyed himself, he couldn’t help Red.
She’d be alone.
Disappointed in him.
He held that ball of rage in his palm and curled his fingers around it, squeezing it tight.
It burned him, seared him.
So, he smashed it into the tree to put it out.
Again and again.
Over and over.
Until the anger was gone.
Until he almost had nothing left. Which was what he’d been afraid of.
He was nothing but that shell.
But like his brother always said, something was better than nothing.
An empty shell could be filled, while a broken shell would only leak.
He needed to keep that shell whole.
Because something was better than nothing.
And Red was that something.
Chapter Fifteen
Sig heard the door open and black heavy boots came into his line of vision.
“Jesus fuck, brother!” Trip yelled. “What the fuck happened?”
He was on his brother’s porch, back at the farm. He couldn’t remember how he got there.
His throat was dry and raw like he’d been screaming. His body was stiff from being curled up into a ball on the wood floor of the farmhouse’s back porch. Most likely for hours since the sun was now up.
“Stella!” his brother screamed.
More footsteps and then an upset female’s, “Christ, Sig.”
Trip’s ol’ lady was on her knees next to his head, one hand on his cheek, cupping it gently. “Sig, where’s Autumn? Is she okay?”
“His fuckin’ hand. It’s all busted the fuck up,” Trip said, worry lacing his words.
“Holy shit. He needs to go to the hospital,” Stella said next.
“No,” Sig forced out, trying to get his brain working. Shake off the darkness and get it unstuck. “No. Red...”
“Is she okay? What did you do?” Stella was now sounding a bit panicked.
“Gettin’ shit to clean that up,” Trip announced.
“No,” Sig said louder. He forced himself to sit up, his head throbbing, his hand pulsating, too.
“It might be broken,” Stella insisted.
“No. Red.”
“Where is she?”
“Need a key.”
“D’you lose yours?” Trip asked, standing over him, and, for the first time since Pete and Buck had beat the shit out of him when he was fifteen, Sig saw fear on his face.
“No.”
“What d’you need a key for?”
“My place.”
“For what?” Trip yelled. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”
“Need another key.”
“We need to clean you up, Sig. Is Autumn all right?” Concern. Fear.