Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
But it was too late.
The door was already in motion, pushing inward, making Islah’s head whip over, brows pinched as she felt it push inward.
Then the whole thing seemed to speed up, fast forward.
Cinna yelled, but I couldn’t seem to make out what she was saying over the thumping of my pulse in my ears as I watched a man storm into the condo.
The force of the door sent Islah flying, crashing back into the wall, her pretty face twisting up in pain as her head snapped back.
No.
This couldn’t be happening.
Not here.
Where it was supposed to be safe.
The man ignored Islah, charging instead at Cinna, his hand pulling out of his jacket, coming back with a gun that had my stomach twisting, mind flashing back to the night before, to another man, another gun, the muted sounds, the blood, the fear, the uncertainty.
Cinna’s arm started to raise, her own gun at the ready.
But I watched in horror as the other shooter was faster, taking aim and shooting.
I wouldn’t have thought anything happened if I didn’t see Cinna’s whole body jerk to one side as, it seemed, a bullet sliced into her flesh.
The man wasn’t satisfied with that, though.
He kept moving toward her, grabbing her arm with the gun, yanking it up to aim toward the ceiling, his grip hard enough to make Cinna’s face twist in pain.
He shook her hand, once, twice.
Until, on the third savage twist, the gun slipped from her hand and went flying.
I watched, frozen on the spot, my legs stuck, my very heartbeat seemingly seized in my chest, as he lifted his other hand, and started to press the gun toward Cinna’s head.
Suddenly, Islah was up off the floor, taking a running start and leaping onto the man’s back, the shock of her body suddenly clinging to him, making his hand fall just enough, and allow Cinna to move away, out of the line of fire.
Cinna moved into the cage of his body, fingers digging into his eyes.
A deep, guttural yell escaped the man as he whipped himself around to get away from the pressure.
Islah clung to him, her legs wrapped hard around his waist, her arms going up to close around his throat. She squeezed hard enough to make her arms shake, and make red rise in the man’s face and cheeks.
Cinna rushed around, trying to get to her gun.
But then there was a slam, followed by a cry, as we both turned to see the man ramming Islah back against the wall.
Once, twice.
The third, time made her eyes go out of focus, and suddenly, she was going lax, falling down hard on her ass, gaze dazed as he turned on her, raising his gun.
Thoughts of her gun abandoned, Cinna rushed the shooter, grabbing his wrist with both of hers, the gun waving around wildly as they both fought for control.
Islah was still slumped against the wall, a faraway look in her eyes. And, I noticed with rising horror, there was a spot of blood on the wall where she’d slammed into it over and over, then drag marks down toward where she was sitting.
Oh, God.
Elian was going to lose his mind if something happened to his baby sister. While I just stood there. Not fighting the attacker. Not assisting Islah. Just doing… nothing.
There was a crashing noise, making my gaze reluctantly slide away from Islah, finding Cinna splayed out on the coffee table, the center of it concaved under the impact, making her struggle to get back out.
As the man drew closer.
As he raised his gun.
He was going to shoot Cinna.
Then Islah.
All because of me.
Suddenly, whatever had been keeping my feet glued to the ground let up, and I flew across the floor, reaching for Cinna’s gun.
“No!” I screamed, making the man stiffen.
Then turn.
As my finger slid to the trigger.
Aimed.
Pulled.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
His body jerked twice.
Five.
Six.
And I watched as blood bloomed out from a hole suddenly lodged in the man’s cheek.
It seemed to take him a moment to realize he was shot, his body wobbling, his brows knitting.
Cinna took the opportunity as he fell in slow motion to his knees to climb out of the wrecked coffee table, then rush toward me.
She yanked the gun from my hands, walking over to him, pressing the muzzle to the top of his head.
And pulling the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Not a second later, he fell forward, cracking his face hard against the floor.
Then, well, then there was nothing but silence.
“Islah,” Cinna said, kicking the door closed on her way over to Islah, where she dropped to her knees, and reached for the younger woman’s face with both of hers, the gun pressing against Islah’s cheek as Cinna lifted her head. “Are you with me?” she asked.
“Y-yeah,” Islah said, nodding slowly. “My head hurts.”
“Yeah, looks like you hit it pretty fucking hard,” Cinna said, putting the gun down to reach to turn Islah’s head to inspect the wound. “Kiddo, looks like we need to take you to see a doctor,” she said, reaching with one hand for her pocket.