Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I reach for the pouch myself, and Savage eases to the side, allowing me the room to shift in front of her. “Try a little for me, baby,” I urge. “I need you to just take a tiny bite for me.”
“No, I—”
“Yes,” I insist, firmly this time. “You have to do this.”
“No,” she whispers.
“Yes, Alana. You have to try.”
She expels a shaky breath. “Stubborn man.”
“Yes, I am.” I hold the gel to her lips, and she sucks a little into her mouth, and then a little more. It’s a good ten minutes before I manage to get most of the supplement down her.
“Give it about ten minutes to work, and then I’ll draw her blood,” Savage says.
“Why are you taking her blood?” I ask.
“We need to find out what drugs they gave her.”
“I’m still here,” Alana scoffs at us both. “You’re talking like I’m not.”
Savage grunts, and then, in a pirate voice, says, “A feisty wench, now, isn’t she? She’ll bite your hand off if you let her.”
To my surprise and pleasure, Alana laughs, because the truth is, Savage says the stupidest shit that no one else would get away with. “Did you just call me a wench?” she challenges, and her voice is stronger now, her cheeks pinched with color that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
“A wench is, by definition, a lady,” Savage assures her. “But who really wants to be called a lady? Not me, I’ll tell you.”
“I’m pretty sure no one will call you a lady, Savage,” Alana says, her lips tilted up and her eyes alight over his silliness.
She finishes off the gel, and when I claim the empty container from her, she points a playful finger at me. “If you call me a wench, I’ll have to punish you.”
“Oh no,” Savage says, holding up his hands. “None of the sex talk with me around. You’ll make me miss my wife.” He pulls out a syringe. “Let’s get the bloodwork done so you two can go home and bang the headboard, and I can do the same.”
Alana snorts at his shocking boldness, and by the time she stops laughing, he’s drawn her blood, and not only does she tolerate it well, she seems wildly better now. Her eyes are brighter, her energy level improved. “I’m actually hungry now,” Alana announces, pressing her hand to her belly.
“Then you need to eat,” Savage approves. “And at this point, I’m done with you, but I’ll feel better if I escort you both to your place.”
Alana’s foot begins to tap, and her hand settles on her chest just below her neck, her jovial mood fading into palpable edginess. “Because you think they’ll attack us, or because you think I’m going to pass out?” she asks.
I squeeze her legs, drawing her attention to me, and only when she fixes her pretty blue eyes on me do I say, “They’re not coming back. It’s over.”
She rejects my answer without a prelude. “This one incident might be over, but the war is not. It won’t be over until we end it, and him, and we didn’t this time. He almost ended me.”
The word almost cuts me as deeply as shards of broken glass. This event could have ended differently. She could be gone, the woman I love with all that I am, ripped from this world and my life. It all drives home the foolish way I drove us apart, forced our distance, and just simply believed that life without me would be better for her, if not miserable for me. But my father somehow knew that I’d never let her go, and therefore, he never let her go.
Would have, could have, should have is always a dangerous mental pattern to travel, but I can’t help but do so now. If I’d forced a confrontation over her sooner, maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t be at war now, and we are at war. Maybe I was wrong about his plans. Maybe he did want to end her—end all of this once and for all—but I will never say that to Alana. I’ll stick with the story I’ve told myself—the one I won’t give my father a chance to prove wrong again. “He didn’t want to end you. That was never his plan.”
“Just torture me?” she challenges, but newfound fear darts through her eyes, and her body stiffens. “Oh God. My mother—”
“Will be on a plane to Italy later tonight,” Blake interjects, stepping into view. “I sent our man, Joey, to deliver her to a close friend up there who will protect her until this is over.”
“When is that?” Alana asks. “When will this ever be over?” She curls her fingers around the T-shirt I’m wearing and hisses at me, “And don’t say when you kill your father. Don’t go there again. There’s another answer.” She glances between Blake and Savage before repeating, “There’s another answer.”