Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I would admit I was a little disappointed they all took the bait so easily. But I knew how to piss off the Irish, being of Irish descent myself.
The first of the two reached for me, trying to grab my collar. I latched onto his sleeve and pulled him close, my fist and his face meeting somewhere in the middle.
He swore while covering his face, blood flowing freely from the cut my signet ring made just under his eye.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, or does she only understand bleating?” I asked.
“That’s it,” the second of the two said, in what I was sure was a stunningly witty retort for the dolt.
He lunged for me, his fist coming like a freight train. I ducked, barely missing the fleshy hammer. While low, I hit him twice in the kidneys and then stood to my full height to punch him in the face, blood spewing from his nose.
There was no time to celebrate. The other one was coming back at me fast. He was quick, but not as quick as I was. I sidestepped the punch and then grabbed the back of his head, forcing it into the side of the dumpster as hard as I could. If it were open and I had used the lip, I could have very well killed him. As it was, he would be concussed, and the only thing I killed was one of his last two brain cells.
He moaned and collapsed on his friend, out for the count.
His pal let out a roar of fury like a battle cry would help him. He threw punches that were easy enough to block. The local mafia had clearly stopped sending their men to the same boxing gym.
I was bored, and it was time to get on with it.
One hit with enough force and accuracy was all it was going to take. I shoved him back and threw all my power behind my fist, aiming for the spot where his jaw met his skull. He went down like a sack of sheep-fucking potatoes.
The girl let out another muffled scream, and I saw the last man trying to drag her away.
“Put her down now,” I said. Part of me was hoping he wouldn’t. This guy was smaller, so maybe he was scrappy, would need to use technique over brute force.
“I’ll… I’ll,” he stammered, backing away with my prize in his arms.
“You will let the girl go, and you will run.” The threat was clear in my voice, and as I watched his eyes widen, I knew he would do something stupid.
The stupid ones never disappointed.
He turned, still gripping her, whipping her around straight into another dumpster. She crumpled, and he let her go as he ran away like the little coward he was.
I walked over and sure enough, little Rose Astrid, the delicate flower of the Astrid family, was lying on top of a trash bag piled next to the dumpster. A lump was forming on her temple, and a few fingerprint-shaped bruises were on her neck and jaw.
Her emerald-green eyes blinked up at me before she passed out.
Of course she did.
I rolled my eyes and bent down to pick her up, grateful the bag she landed on wasn’t filled with dirty diapers or worse.
She was so much lighter than she should have been. She wasn’t particularly short, about average height for a woman, but she felt so small and frail in my arms.
I carried her out of the alley and through a hidden back door. Down the dark back hallways to my private sanctuary. At some point, she woke up. She said nothing, but her body stiffened as I brought her into one of my favorite rooms. The library was quiet, comfortable, lavishly decorated, and, best of all, forgotten about. No one would be disturbing us here.
I set her on the overstuffed leather couch and went to light a candle.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said, her words timid, like she feared I would scold her for being attacked.
No doubt her harpy mother would do just that. Screaming and wailing that she was battered and bruised. Not out of any concern for her, but for what people would say. And how would she look in photos?
The scandal would be the talk of the town, as if Mary Quinn’s recent behavior didn’t set enough tongues wagging.
I gave her a tight smile and looked her up and down, slowly taking in the sweaterdress that clung to her delicate curves. I would never understand why women starved themselves to be so rail thin.
It couldn’t be to please a man. Still, I could see how her curves were determined to give her some shape, even if she starved them. She couldn’t starve her full breasts away, or the curve of her hips.