Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 60081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Jolted out of my shock by her second scream, I spill out of my car and sprint after Kyle, not sure what I’m going to do when I reach him but refusing to let him get a piece of Wren on my watch. I’m hoping to get my hands locked around his neck and wrestle him to the ground long enough for her to get inside—figuring I’ll worry about how to get back to my car once she’s secure—when I slip on a patch of ice under the freshly fallen snow and go down hard.
My hands hit the cold ground and I bleat like a startled sheep, wincing as agony flows up my bruised knees into my hip sockets. But I’m not hurt, not seriously, and my squawking stops Kyle in his tracks.
He spins, feather rippling, as he spots me in the snow.
Wren calls out from the porch, “Do you need help? Should I get my gun?”
I call out, “No, I’m fine. I just slipped. Get inside and I’ll call you tomorrow.” I don’t wait to see if she’s going to follow orders. I’m already scrambling to my feet and dashing back toward my car, Kyle in hot pursuit.
He gobbles and gurgles as he closes in, sounding more like an orc unleashed from the bowels of Mount Doom than poultry. Despite the cold, sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and my hands are shaking as I reach for the driver’s side door. I’m shaking so badly; my fingers slip off the handle.
By the time I reach for it a second time, Kyle’s on me.
Literally, on me, his vicious beak latched onto my bottom through my jeans.
I bite down on the inside of my lip, stifling my cry of pain, not wanting Wren to rush outside to save me. I don’t want my sacrifice to be in vain, and I’m honestly a little ashamed of myself. If I hadn’t been deep in sex thoughts, this wouldn’t have happened.
I grit my teeth and ignore the fire flaring from my brutalized bottom as I open the door, reach in for the flashlight I keep in the compartment between the seats, and whack blindly in Kyle’s general direction. I hit my own thigh the first time, but the second, I connect with some part of my gobbling tormentor. By the fourth whack, he lets go and I tumble into the front seat and slam the door.
I sit there, pulling in harsh breaths, as he parades around my car, wings held high, taking his victory lap. I’m sorely tempted to shift into reverse and floor it when he showboats past my bumper, but Wren was clear about wanting a humane solution to all this.
But damn, this jerk really is the worst.
My backside stings all the way home and when I get up to my apartment, I find a hole in my favorite pair of pink jeans and bruised, torn skin beneath. It looks like I was stabbed with a knife—a very small knife, but still!
As I clean the wound and layer three small Band-Aids, the only size I have in my toiletry bag, over the top, I feel terrible for Wren. We have to get rid of Kyle before she’s a prisoner in her own home. Or covered head to toe in turkey fighting battle scars.
The only good thing about the literal pain in my butt is that it keeps my thoughts off Drew for the rest of the night. Mostly. That weird dream featuring Drew as a warrior wearing a coat of turkey feathers while he pleasures me orally and vows to destroy the beast who wounded me doesn’t count.
But my night of tossing and turning does leave me beat the next morning, so beat I don’t take time to clean my wound again, which turns out to be a bad decision.
Very bad indeed.
Chapter Eight
DREW
I arrive home from work on Tuesday, expecting Sarah Beth to run to the front door with tales of the day’s adventures, only to find the house weirdly quiet and all the lights off downstairs.
“Sarah Beth?” I call out as I hang my coat in the hall closet and flick on the lights. “Tatum? Are you here?”
But of course, they’re here. The van is in the garage and Tatum’s car is in the driveway. I’m headed upstairs to see if maybe they’re watching a movie in my room—Sarah Beth likes to snuggle up in my bed, sometimes, and watch the big screen—when my daughter’s head pops up over the couch, nearly giving me a heart attack.
“Shh!” she hisses, pressing a little finger to her lips. “Quiet, Daddy. Tatum’s sleeping.”
“What?” I frown as I cross to the couch, peeking over to see Tatum indeed asleep beside Sarah Beth. She’s curled up in a ball with her head on one of the throw pillows.