Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Jean regretted ever laying eyes on Renee. He hated himself for giving in to curiosity and answering her messages in January. Hindsight was a backstabbing bitch.
“No one did this to me,” he said. “I was injured in scrimmages.”
“I work with the Foxes,” Abby reminded Jean. “Even they can’t hurt each other this badly on the court. Lord knows enough of ‘em tried over the years.”
“I find it unsurprising they’re mediocre in everything they do.”
“This,” Abby said, touching very careful fingers to the side of his head, “is not from a scrimmage. Even the Ravens practice in full armor, I assume? Look me in the eye and tell me how they managed to tear out so much of your hair through a helmet.”
Jean’s hand went up unbidden, finding hers and then the raw aching points along his scalp. Memory skittered at the edge of his mind: one hand over his mouth and nose to hold his head down while the other hand yanked as hard as it could. For a moment the remembered sensation of ripping, peeling skin was blinding, and Jean swallowed hard against a rush of bile. He quickly dropped his hand to his lap.
“I asked you a question,” Abby said.
“Take me back to Evermore,” Jean said. “I won’t stay here with you.”
“Abby,” Renee said, returning Jean’s water to its tray. She and Abby quietly took their leave without another word to him. Jean tuned out the sound of the door closing behind them in favor of figuring out how to save his own life. It all hinged on his ability to get back to West Virginia.
He couldn’t change that he’d been taken or that Andritch had gotten involved, but he’d prove his loyalty by getting home as quickly as he could. He had codes for the stadium and the Nest, so he just had to slip past security and get inside. It didn’t matter what Andritch told the Ravens; not a single one of them would turn him away at the door. No one walked away from Evermore.
Except Kevin. Except Nathaniel.
These thoughts were unhelpful, burning through his chest like poison, and Jean hit his thighs as hard as he could. Pain put white noise in his head, drowning out dangerous thoughts, and Jean breathed in and out as slowly as he could until his mind came back together. Jean checked his pockets for his phone and came back empty.
A moment later he realized he was wearing an unfamiliar pair of gray shorts. Gray, not black. Jean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to wear color. Marseille, perhaps, but Jean couldn’t be sure. He’d left France at fourteen, but too many years in the Nest had worn away everything he was before. Sixteen-hour days and Riko’s heartbreaking cruelty had ripped out whatever soul he had left. Everything before was a fractured mess, dreams that dissipated before he woke enough to recall them with any clarity.
For a moment that ache felt more like grief than fear, but Jean hit himself again to sharpen the edge. It didn’t matter what came before; there was no going back. All that mattered was getting through today, then tomorrow, then the next day. All that mattered was getting home.
I am Jean Moreau. My place is at Evermore. I will endure.
Jean eased himself closer to the edge of the bed and let the balls of his feet touch the coarse carpet. Getting up took five tries, as he had to push himself up off the mattress with his hands. The knifing pain each attempt caused had him sucking in shaky, desperate breaths that bit holes in his throat.
Jean tried taking a step forward, but his left leg refused to take his weight. He went down like a rock, casting about for anything to stop his fall. His hand hit the tray, catapulting its contents everywhere. The icy bite of juice and water was not nearly so bad as the scalding heat of soup. Worse than both was the shattering pain in his chest and knee when he hit the ground, and Jean bit his hand to bleeding before he could scream.
The horrifying suspicion that he was not strong enough to get back to Evermore on his own was almost his undoing. Jean bit harder, hoping to find bone, and then there were hands on him. He hadn’t even heard the door open through the roaring in his ears.
“Hey,” a man’s voice said at his ear, and Coach Wymack tugged at his wrist until Jean loosened his death grip. A second later Wymack got both arms under him, and he lifted Jean off the floor and back into bed with startling ease. He gave Jean a quick onceover before heading for the door again.
He wasn’t good enough to stay away, but at least he closed the door behind himself when he returned. He’d brought a few wet washcloths back with him. Jean tried to take one from him, but Wymack only caught hold of his forearm so he could clean the bloody bitemarks on Jean’s hand. Jean wasn’t concerned with the injury when his glove would hide it from view, but he couldn’t pull hard enough to yank out of Wymack’s grasp.