Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
There’s a fire in my shoulder and another in my waist. I’m burning up. It’s the fires of hell, I think. I’m in hell and being burned for my failure. For my sins.
“Daniel. Stop.” It’s Regan.
“Fighter. Wait for me,” I tell her. “I’m coming for you.”
Wetness falls on my face. “You promised not to leave me,” she screams. Her screams are so loud. I see Hudson above her, his whip hand reaching back to strike again. Grabbing it, I pull him away, but there’s another man and another and I can’t reach her. “Regan,” I scream. “I’m coming. Hang on.”
Arms try to hold me down, but I have to get to her. I’m not leaving her behind. I’ve got to keep my promise.
“Don’t come home until you find her.” The stern face of my father appears next to me. My mother lies in pieces at his feet. Someone’s shaking my arm.
“I’m coming, Regan, wait for me.” They’ve immobilized me, but I’m not being held back. “I won’t leave without you!” I roar. And then a blow across my face renders everything black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
REGAN
I clutch Daniel’s hand in mine for hours. He’s asleep, due to the heavy-duty drugs they’ve given him, and isn’t aware that I haven’t left his side. I still hold his hand anyhow. They’ve pumped blood into him, and his color is better, his wounds are stitched up, and they assure me he’ll be fine. But I won’t believe that he’s going to be all right until he wakes up and smiles at me and calls me “fighter.” Then, I’ll know he’s okay.
Then, I can tell him that his sister’s gone again.
Vasily has disappeared. Mendoza sent some men to hunt him and try to stop him, but both he and Naomi have vanished without a trace. Mendoza thinks that Daniel will know where Vasily has taken Naomi, and I hope so.
I worry he’s going to be furious at me because I didn’t do enough to stop Vasily from taking her again. And I worry that Daniel will look at me with loathing because I’m still here and Naomi’s gone again.
Mostly, though, I sit and worry.
One of the favela doctors swings in and checks on Daniel. Daniel has a new bruise on his face from when Mendoza came in and clocked him in the jaw to get him to stop yelling. The doctor smiles at me; I think he’s impressed that I never leave. He checks Daniel’s vitals, switches an IV bag, and starts to leave again.
“Is he going to wake up soon?” I ask softly.
The doctor doesn’t look concerned. “Soon. How are your feet?”
“They’re fine,” I say flatly. I have bruises all over, and my feet are torn up from all the glass I had to have extracted from them, but it’s unimportant. Daniel’s all that matters. “How soon is ‘soon’?”
The doctor shrugs and turns to leave. He looks so unconcerned. Maybe he’s used to patching up bullet holes far too often. He nods at me. “Soon.”
And then he leaves again.
I press my mouth to the back of Daniel’s hand. He’s so still in bed, so lacking that vibrancy that I’m used to seeing. I never realized until now how very alive Daniel is and how much I ache to see that devilish smile of his again.
Instead, I’m here, listening to every breath he takes and hoping it’s not his last.
“You promised you wouldn’t leave me,” I murmur against his hand. “You promised, Daniel.”
He doesn’t respond. Of course not. I press another kiss to the back of his hand, thinking. Then, I smile. “If this were a horror movie, you and I would both be dead, you know.” I pause, as if imagining his outraged response, then nod. “It’s true. Horror movies follow basic stereotypes, and those stereotypes always get picked off. One of the first ones to go is always the slutty blonde. Bad guys love a good, slutty blonde.” I imagine his laugh and smooth my fingers along his skin. “They usually die screaming and running through the woods, only to trip because they wore some ridiculous high-heeled shoes. And you, of course, would be the cocky, arrogant asshole stereotype. Those die pretty fast, too. You’re far too competent, too good at what you do, too good-looking. I think the movie writers make it their mission to take down guys like you.” I nip at his fingers idly. “Which is ironic because we both know you’d toast anyone or anything that tried to get past you, and you’d do it with a smile.”
“Who lives?”
My head jerks up at the softly worded question, my heart hammering in my chest.
Daniel’s eyes are mere slits in his face, but he’s smiling at me, and the hand in mine squeezes briefly. “Hey, fighter.”
“Hi,” I say, and my vision blurs and more tears stream down my cheeks. I’m so relieved. The doctors said he would be fine, but I don’t trust anyone’s words anymore. All I trust is Daniel.