Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Marco laughs, a harsh, ugly sound. “Shows what you know. Lena Reid isn’t what you think she is. She’s—”
“Shut up.” I take a step closer, my gun steady despite the trembling fury in my veins. “Just shut the fuck up.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes are calculating, searching for an opening. “What exactly is your plan here, detective? Shoot me? You think Mickey won’t figure out who did it? You think you’ll leave this house alive if you pull that trigger?”
“I’m not planning to shoot you.” I lower the gun slightly. “Just have a conversation about boundaries. About what happens if you ever touch Lena again.”
Marco’s expression shifts, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “You poor bastard. You’re in love with her, aren’t you? Got yourself all worked up over a piece of ginger-curled tail.”
The world goes red at the edges.
“Tell you what,” he continues, reaching slowly for a cigar box on his desk. “I’ll let this little home invasion slide. Hell, I’ll even put in a good word with Mickey. But you stay away from Lena. Find yourself another broad. One who isn’t spoken for.”
“I told you to shut your mouth,” I repeat, but my voice sounds distant, as if I’m hearing myself from underwater.
Marco opens the cigar box, and I tense, expecting a weapon. Instead, he removes a cigar, tapping it against the box before placing it between his lips. “You know what your problem is, Callahan? You think you’re better than the rest of us. Some kind of knight in shining armor.” He strikes a match, the flame illuminating the cruel amusement in his eyes. “But you’re not, are you? There’s something wrong with you. I can see it. Something dark. You’re not a knight at all and your armor ain’t shinin’.”
The pounding in my head increases, my vision tunneling until all I can see is Marco’s smug face, the lit match hovering before his cigar.
God. Not now.
Not now.
“I mean, look at you,” he continues, lighting the cigar and taking a long draw. “Sneaking into my house with a gun. All for a woman who’s been warming my bed for a year. She’s good, isn’t she? The way she makes you feel important. That mouth of hers. The noises she makes when you’re inside her. How she—”
I don’t remember crossing the room. Don’t remember holstering my gun. One moment I’m standing in the doorway, and the next my hands are around Marco’s throat, squeezing, lifting him off the ground with a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
His eyes bulge, hands clawing at mine, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. The rage is consuming me, transforming into something primal.
Something hungry.
Marco’s face turns purple, his struggles weakening. In the back of my mind, a voice screams at me to stop, that this isn’t who I am. But that voice is drowned out by a roaring in my ears, a demand for blood that overwhelms all reason.
Then something changes. My vision sharpens beyond anything I’ve experienced before. I can see every pore on Marco’s skin, the individual capillaries bursting in his eyes. I can hear his heart, frantic but slowing, the rush of blood through his veins. And I can smell him—fear and cologne and beneath it all, the iron-rich scent of his blood.
My mouth waters.
There’s a strange, pulling sensation in my gums, a sharp pain, and then—
Darkness.
I wake to copper and salt.
For a moment, I can’t remember where I am, my head pounding with the worst hangover of my life. I’m on my knees on a hardwood floor, the world spinning around me. When I try to push myself up, my hands slip on something wet and warm.
Blood. So much blood.
It’s everywhere—pooled on the floor, splattered on the walls, soaking my clothes. The metallic smell of it fills my nostrils, so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat.
That’s when I see Marco.
What’s left of him.
He’s sprawled on his back, throat torn open, chest a mess of deep lacerations. One arm is extended, wrist slashed open to the bone. His eyes stare at the ceiling, frozen in terror.
I scramble backward until my back hits the wall, a sound escaping me that’s half sob, half retch.
What happened? Who did this?
Fragments of memory flash through my mind—following Marco to his house, confronting him, my hands around his throat. But after that, nothing. Just a blank space where minutes—maybe hours—should be.
Did I do this?
Could I have done this?
My stomach heaves, and I vomit onto the floor. Blood. I’m throwing up blood. Am I injured? I frantically check myself for wounds, but find nothing except bruised knuckles from our earlier fight. Unless I’m bleeding internally, which I ain’t ruling out, the blood isn’t mine.
It’s Marco’s.
Oh god. What have I done?
I stagger to my feet, room spinning as I try to piece together what happened. I remember rage—a rage unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I remember wanting to hurt him, to punish him for touching Lena, for threatening her.