Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Dane shot up and cried at the top of his lungs. He wasn’t staying here. Not without Jag to protect him. “I’m not letting him leave without me!”
Shane raised his eyebrows at Frank, and they must have shared some wordless understanding without words as they led Jag to the car.
“Fine,” Frank said. “You can come with us to the hospital, but expect a bullet if you try to run before I get to the heart of why you’re still alive.”
The words sent a chill down Dane’s spine, and even Jag’s cool fingers desperately gripping his felt warm in comparison.
“Excuse me?” he asked in a quiet voice, determined to play dumb, because what else did he have up his sleeve other than a chance to be among people and ask someone for help in one way or another.
It dawned on him that while staying at Jag’s side ensured his safety, for once, it might also allow him to contact his family and regain his freedom. He would not let it pass him by.
Frank shook his head, but when it came to moving Jag onto the blankets in the car, he became too focused on the task to watch Dane. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t forget a man with hair like yours. But I’m not a murderer if I don’t have to be, so get in the car and shut up.”
The “if I don’t have to be” twisted Dane’s stomach, but there wasn’t much time to argue, and his own safety became unimportant when Jag cried out in pain.
Chapter 13 – Dane
Shane’s cursing was near-constant, but Dane was glad to hear it instead of a deathly silence as the car sped toward its destination. Frank, on the other hand, was as quiet as a rock wall, only periodically asking Dane to check whether Jag was breathing.
Jag had fallen unconscious long before they reached the hospital, but each bump on the road still made him sigh and grimace. Dane imagined the rough surface of the bar cutting into flesh and spreading particles of rust all over Jag’s system, and as he held the clammy hand, he prayed that his warmth would somehow keep his lover alive.
When Jag was rushed off to surgery, all Dane could think of was the severe expression of the doctor who admitted them in the emergency room. What if it meant that Jag’s chances were slim? The man who’d cuddled Dane to sleep, made fire when Dane was cold, and treated him like royalty in their tiny kingdom, would be dead because of him.
Even though Jag had given him the plastic bag filled with money in the same way he’d given him a bunch of painted acorns he’d found, Dane still felt guilty over accepting it then repaying Jag with violence. Dane had only meant to shove Jag away, but what difference did his intentions make if the end was a tragic one?
After once more reminding Shane to keep an eye on Dane, Frank left them on a bench in an empty corridor, which was only frequented from time to time due to the vending machine close by.
Each person walking past Dane seemed like an opportunity to ask for help, yet Dane stayed put, held still by the phantom of Jag’s pale face.
What if he never woke up?
What if he’d died thinking that Dane hated him and would rather see him die than keep being his mate?
Dane grunted and hid his face in his hands, torn like some teenage heroine unable to pick between two hot guys. No. If he were that teenage heroine, his life would have been easier, because the fact that his heart throbbed with worry for a man who’d forced him into a relationship and cut him off from the world he knew made him a complete freak.
Was this Stockholm syndrome?
He should call for help, run to the reception desk, or make a scene, because while Shane was a shady type, he didn’t seem like the kind of man who acted on impulse and would have risked being arrested. And yet, Dane stalled, his brain overcome by fog of guilt and worry.
Shane stretched in his seat, pushing back his dark, short-cropped hair. “So did you live with him in his den? ‘Cause you look too clean to have been hiding around the junkyard for weeks on your own.” He spoke in a casual manner, but his green eyes were sharp and attentive.
What was this interview? There had to be a hidden purpose behind the question, and knowing that was already making Dane sweat. He settled on, “He kept me there.”
Shane eyed him from head to toe, but it was impossible to tell what went on in his head. He pointed to the row of small keys attached to Dane’s sweatpants for decoration. “I see he forced you to take on his style as well.”