Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Enough!
My foot kicks the dirty old door so fucking hard it flies off its hinges and crashes against the floor.
Inside, two big, dirty men in leather jackets look at me with their eyes spinning.
Right now, I don’t care if they think I’m Casper the friendly fucking ghost.
I just want to rake my blade through their skulls.
My eyes flick to Delia. The assholes are tall, lean, nasty-looking men.
Proper cartel minions, or else the kind of slimy street urchins men like Joaquin hire on the side to hunt girls and snatch them when it’s convenient.
Thing Two, the young fuck, must’ve had his hand on her throat a second ago. He’s got her dark lace panties in the other, staring at me like he can’t decide if I’m real.
They move fast, but they’ve got nothing on a SEAL.
The next five seconds are a blur.
Nothing matters besides dispatching them, ripping them away from my girl, washing away the tears I saw streaming down her cheeks with their filthy fucking blood.
My girl.
I don’t even have time to process my own movements.
There’s too many limbs falling, bones snapping under my savage kicks, my limbs working in a murderous rage.
They barely get a chance to realize I’ve shattered their ribs with the roundhouse kicks that put them on the floor with a satisfying crunch of vertebrae.
I’d love to hurt them more—so much more—but snuffing their evil asses out is the best option.
I need them neutralized, especially when the older man gets his wits and pulls a gun.
He never tries to pull the trigger.
Nope.
The asshole yelps before I drive my blade through his skull, and then I give his friend the same gift, silencing them forever.
I know I’m supposed to play it nice and legal.
I should have disarmed them, broken them, held them for the police or the Feds.
Trouble is, they lost the right to mercy the moment they fucked with my girl.
Everything melts into this timeless gasp of blood and sweat and terror, the confusion every soldier experiences in the heat of battle.
It’s over just as abruptly, too.
I don’t have to check any pulses to know they’re dead. Both men are out cold in the grimy, dark bathroom with their lives deserting them.
Before I turn my back on their carcasses, something catches my eye. The thick metal rings on their hands, eerily familiar and damn near identical, each sporting that self-devouring snake I’ve come to loath.
I lean down, yanking the rings off and pocketing them for evidence. Not normal crime fighting protocol, but with the cartel’s tendrils everywhere, I’m not taking a gamble on a corrupt insider disappearing with this proof.
Delia makes a sputtering sound like she’s choking from her crumpled heap on the floor. When I reach her, she doesn’t move.
She won’t even look at me until I gently grab her chin and tilt her face up.
“Fuck, baby. I wish you didn’t have to see that.” I drop the knife.
It hits the floor with a clatter and I get my first good look at what they’ve done to her.
Goddamn.
I wish I could slaughter those thugs all over again for screwing up her dress, darkening her brain forever with this sick, fucked up memory.
I realize my hands are smudged with their blood.
Shit.
Staggering to the sink between us, I pray the plumbing isn’t shot. There’s a rattling hiss behind the wall before rusty water sprays out.
Barely a trickle, but it’ll do. It’s all I need to clean the murder off my hands.
For a rough second, I want to punch the broken mirror on the wall when I see my own reflection.
My fingers dab at the flecks of blood on my neck. I stare at the limp bodies on the floor, long trails of crimson snaking behind them.
Then I hear another panicked whimper, Delia struggling to breathe. By the time I cross the room, lifting her up, she’s breathing like she just ran a marathon.
“Princess, are you—”
She’s not.
Nothing about her is okay.
I gaze into her vacant eyes, shaking my head, searching for the familiar bright spark that’s gone out of her like a snuffed-out candle.
“Delia,” I whisper again once we’re outside, gently shaking her as I set her down.
She just stands there, looking right through me.
“Delia, fuck, say something!”
“R-red,” she stammers.
I cock my head, looking at her. I don’t understand.
“Red like death. Black like their eyes. Yellow like...yellow like fear.” She’s speaking so weakly, her face a mask of absolute numbness.
Oh, hell.
Oh, fuck!
The last thing I hear is the approaching wail of sirens as I pull her into my arms, cradling her, begging her to come back to me.
In another life, this would’ve been our night.
Now, instead of giving her a beautiful memory, my fuckery has infected her with my nightmare.
11
Yellow Fear (Delia)
I’ve never been so lost in my life.
The next day is a messy smear, a hazy blur where time skips and emotions bleed out.