Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
His small warehouse hideout is in my direct line of sight as I make my move. It’s a dilapidated heap of shit compared to the building I parked behind, and judging by the graffiti on the boarded windows and the beer bottles littered around the parking lot, it’s fair to say it has seen its share of late nights.
My guess is that it’s been abandoned for maybe ten to fifteen years. The coloring on the outside has faded with time while some of the metal sheets making up its walls are missing. Anybody could get in and out. It offers no protection, no safety.
What the fuck was he thinking coming here?
I’m almost disappointed with how easy this is going to be. I won’t even need to lure him out, set a trap, or go hunting. There’s no chase here, simply a chance to practice my skills.
Ugh. I can’t believe I wasted a good outfit for this. I should have known better than to allow myself to get so worked up and excited. Hell, his name is The Boston Maneater for fuck’s sake. I should have known this was going to leave me unsatisfied. Not even in death could a man like that satisfy a woman.
Now a man like Reaper? Damn. Killing him will be everything. Dare I suggest it will be better than sex? The adrenaline of the chase, of hunting him and subduing him will be the best foreplay I’ve ever had. And those dark, lethal eyes when he realizes I’ve got him right where I want him. Only he’s going to make me work for it. He’s going to test me in every way possible, push me to my limits, push me until I break, and it’s going to be incredible.
Silently making my way into the small warehouse, I can’t help but grin. There’s a huge fan at the back, almost as tall as the building with its blades slowly rotating and constantly distorting the moonlight that shines through the building. Maybe The Boston Maneater has a little creativity after all.
It’s like the set of a horror movie in here, and as I appreciate my surroundings, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps across the cold concrete ground.
Bingo.
Sinking deeper into the shadows of the building, I crouch down low, watching as The Boston Maneater cuts across the warehouse. He looks as though he’s preparing to go hunting. The only issue is that his movements lack motivation, and it becomes clear that his version of hunting is to go in blind and hope he happens to find someone.
Fucking rookie.
Why are assholes like this even invited to these games? It’s supposed to be the best of the best, yet here’s a guy who likes to stir his coffee with someone’s big toe. Just the thought of it has me ready to wring his neck. He deserves to die simply for being incompetent.
The Boston Maneater begins filling his pockets with weapons and shoves a gun down the waistband of his torn jeans, and all I can do is shake my head. This idiot is embarrassing himself, but before he gets a chance to load up with too many weapons, I decide it’s finally time to make my move. After all, the sooner I get this over and done with, the sooner I get back to my holiday resort and enjoy my month-long vacation.
With The Boston Knee Nibbler more than distracted, I rise out of the shadows and slowly stride into the center of the warehouse. I watch him with every step he takes, completely unaware of his surroundings. His back doesn’t stiffen once. He doesn’t even flinch at the soft padding of my footsteps on the concrete. He’s either too confident and thinks he’s luring me into some bullshit trap, or he’s just stupid.
I’m going with what’s behind door number two. The guy is a fucking moron.
With the ginormous fan at my back, my shadow stretches out across the full length of the warehouse, the slow, spinning blades distorting my shape. It’s fucking beautiful. Poetic almost. And as The Boston Guts Gobbler shoves another cheap knife into his pocket, I withdraw one of mine from the incision of my corset crop.
“I really do wish I could stand here all night and watch you fill your pockets with useless weapons, but you’re starting to bore me.”
The Boston Testicle Taster freezes, his body stiffening like a rock as the gun in his hand drops to the hard concrete. He whips around, his eyes wide like saucers as he takes me in. “How did you get in here?” he demands.
My brows furrow. “Ummm . . . You mean how did I get into the warehouse that’s practically missing all of its sheet metal? Are you serious right now? There are more holes in this building than there are walls.”