Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
If something happens, I’ll press send on that message, and Jarret will come.
When I reach the house, I approach from the back, keeping to the trees. My heart pounds so viciously I feel like my ribs are breaking.
I sprint toward the room where she’s held and arrive at the window. It groans with the hoist of my hands, and I freeze. Every organ in my body turns to stone, waiting for a blade or bullet to run through me.
Nothing happens.
I poke my head under the glass pane and find Raina swaying on her feet in the middle of the room, the chains stretched as far as they can go.
She holds out her hands, rattling the metal links. I toss the key, and she catches it.
Lowering to the floor, she works the locks. It takes forever. Minutes. Hours. The space between my shoulders contracts and itches, and saliva thickens into a dry paste in my mouth.
Hurry. Faster. Come on.
I should climb in and help her, but that’s where my bravery ends. I entered the house of horrors once. I won’t do it again.
Finally, she rises, arms free, and focuses her good eye on me.
I stretch an arm through the window, while keeping my attention on the open space behind me.
She staggers toward me and falls against the sill. We go slow and quiet. She climbs. I pull. Her body is so damaged and malnourished her bruises have bruises, her bones press beneath her skin, and some of the lacerations rip open as she falls through the window with a silent cry.
I release a held breath and loop her arm over my shoulders. “Now we run.”
The forty-foot dash to the tree line is the part I dread most. Can she run? Will he see us? Will bullets plow down our heart-pounding escape?
My blood catches fire, my limbs functioning on their own. I’m disconnected from everything but the ever-present drum of my pulse.
Her feet move in pace with mine, her naked body eking out the last of its strength. When we make it to the cover of foliage and thistles, she tries to collapse.
I hold her up and wrangle the dress over her head. “This isn’t over until we reach the car. Five minutes. You can do this.”
“Yeah.” She grimaces as she works the dress over the gouges and cuts on her torso and hips. “Ready.”
By the time we reach the car, I’m dragging her. My muscles burn. Hot flashes blot my vision, and my jaw aches from clenching.
As I fold her abused body into the backseat, she mumbles, “No cops.”
A frightening thought runs through me. “Does he know where I live?”
“No.” She releases a pained groan and passes out.
I grip the roof of the car to prevent myself from following her under. Hours of extreme stress has taken its toll. But I won’t be able to relax until we’re in my apartment.
My legs protest the walk to the driver’s seat. My back aches as I lower behind the steering wheel.
I have a three-hour drive left. Three hours to figure out what to do with Raina Benally.
Three hours to decide if I should call Jarret.
Raina sleeps the entire duration of the drive. With a vise around my chest, I maintain the speed limit and watch the rearview mirror for signs of John Holsten.
It’s a mentally agonizing, physically exhausting race to my apartment. Even harder is walking her up three flights of stairs without suspicious glances from my neighbors.
My Stetson and sunglasses hide her face, but her pain is palpable, shaking her tiny frame with every step.
Inside, I bathe her, feed her broth, treat her wounds, and tuck her into bed, during which I press her for answers. How long has he been hurting her? Why can’t I call the cops or take her to a hospital? What is she not telling me?
She refuses to talk. It could be the pain, a mental breakdown, or something else, but she hasn’t spoken since we left John’s house.
I let her sleep and shuffle to the window. A storm just blew in, and I’m drawn by the rain pelting against the glass.
The clap of thunder electrifies my skin and fills me with a nostalgia that hugs my soul. The electric flickering of lightning illuminates my mind with images and sensations of a wild night with a perfect man. White bolts streak toward the earth, stirring treacherous longings for the one I let go.
I’ve starved myself for so long I don’t know how to escape the cage I trapped myself in. I live in the confines of my own destruction, running a self-torturing marathon on bloody knees. But lightning storms release me from that hell, if only for a little while.
I feel him in the charged air, see his eyes burning in the violent limbs of light, and hear his roar in the rumble of thunder. Storms connect me to him, but whenever they pass, I go cold inside, my soul incomplete, my feelings numb.