Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Pulling it up, I heard a clattering noise as it moved, making my brows pinch as my other hand moved out to hold the bottle while I tried to open it, twisting uselessly a few times before my thumb felt the little triangle on the cap. Intrigued, I turned it until it met the other triangle on the bottle, and pushed my finger against it, hearing the lid pop off.
Pills?
Someone had left me pills?
I shook a couple into my hand, trying to figure out what kind they might be, but not being able to learn anything about them other than they were oblong pills roughly the same size as your average acetaminophen.
But I wasn't exactly willing to blindly take pills without knowing for sure what they were, no matter how much my head was jackhammering.
Oh a soft sigh, I shook the pills back in and sealed the top before getting up on my knees, trying to feel around the walls, see if there was anything around.
My fingers met wire rack shelves, a forgotten plastic hanger, and not a damn thing else until I got to the door.
My heart seemed to freeze in my chest as my stomach tensed, not sure I was ready for a mad dash if—by some miracle—the knob turned in my hand.
But if I had a chance at freedom, I had to take it, no matter how shitty I felt.
Breath caught in my chest, my hand closed around the knob, tried to turn it.
And nothing.
Of course not.
Why would someone go through the trouble of shoving me in somewhere, if they weren't going to lock the door?
Taking a deep breath, I turned to go back to my corner when something soft brushed up against the tip of my toes.
Something jammed under the door, blocking out the light.
I dropped back to my knees, hands grabbing the small corner, yanking it through, seeing a sliver of light at the bottom.
Hope bolstering, I dropped to my stomach, trying to see out the crack under the door, praying I saw feet or something so I could figure out how many people I was up against.
All I saw, though, was the legs of a bed and the bottom of what seemed to be nightstands. Nothing else.
On a low whimper, I lay back, staring up at the dark space, my head pounding.
The pills.
Rolling to my side, I grabbed them, putting them under the door, inspecting the bottle, then the pills themselves, before throwing three of them back, praying for any relief, so I could think straight again.
It was interesting, the things you think about when you're being held captive in a closet.
You'd think your mind would be obsessing over what could potentially happen to you, why you were there, who would want to hurt you.
But no.
Nope.
My ridiculous mind was on something else entirely.
A tall, fit, chiseled-jawed man.
And what he would think when he got back to the house and found me gone, found his men who were hopefully still alive.
Would he panic? He didn't seem the sort, always so even in temperament, but a needy part of me wanted him to panic, to feel lost, to want to turn over every rock in an attempt to find me.
Would he worry only for professional reasons, or was there, just maybe, a personal response too?
I shouldn't have needed that for him. Any motivator to get him to find me and potentially save me was welcome, surely. Still, there was this pathetic little part of me that wanted to know he was upset, that he was worried about me, that he wanted me back not just to prove a point, but because he wanted me there. In his house, his bed, hell, even his kitchen.
Maybe it was all the heightened emotions thanks to the attack, the seizure, the hopelessness of the situation. Or, at least, that was what I wanted to tell myself.
In reality, I knew what was happening.
I was facing a potentially life-ending situation. And things that I had been avoiding, burying, and denying were coming to the surface because, well, it might not matter in a few hours' time if I felt them or not. Because there was no guarantee I would live through this.
I cared about Huck.
And not just because the sex was good or because he had been a buffer against my terrible family. I just... liked him.
I had seen the way he'd interacted with his men—authoritative, but kind and fair. He took their opinions and feelings into account, he listened to their worries. But he always made the executive decisions, usually—if you were being objective—the right decision. He was both laid-back and serious at the same time, but could take a joke, wasn't' slow to smile.
He gave a shit about people. While he wasn't all mushy about it, it was clear he'd been worried about Seeley both times something had happened to him. And Remy had told me that he was worried about some guy by the name of Arty who got obsessive about his work and forgot to eat and sleep. Hell, even after coming out of my seizure that one time, I had seen concern on his face, in his voice. For me, a practical stranger at the time.