Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78350 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78350 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Take your pick,” she said, glancing around the corner of her window.
“It won’t be long before they’re here,” Bolt said. “They’re like fucking machines. No wonder no one has been able to take them out.”
She wondered if anyone had even been willing to attempt escape. Now that she thought about it, the guy she attacked looked genuinely surprised that she would even dare to try. It was kind of laughable. Exceedingly entertaining, if she truly thought about it. Although, this was not a funny situation. This was not entertaining. This was real life, and this was really fucking scary.
She didn’t know where Venom or her dad, or the Evil Dwellers MC, were. She didn’t get a chance to ask. The fear was real and she felt sick to her stomach. She wanted to burst into tears, or to scream that was enough, but it wasn’t happening.
She looked out of her window and saw they were coming. “They’re here,” she said.
“Shit,” Bolt said, and he grabbed two knives. “If this shit goes bad, you run.”
“Fuck you, Bolt. I’m not going anywhere. You die here, then I guess I die here. I’m not a coward.” Although she shook like she was.
She made her way near the back door that led into the kitchen, and she sunk into the darkness, as she glanced toward the stove to see several of the pots boiling. There was no time to grab one.
Staying perfectly still, she tried not to flinch as she saw the reflection of the man in the back door. She heard nothing from Bolt. All she could hope for was that he was okay and able to take care of himself.
Her heart pounded inside her chest. She felt sick to her stomach. This was not good. Tonight, she could die, and she never got to tell Venom how she felt. Not that he cared. Her feelings didn’t matter.
The man smashed the window of her kitchen door, and that pissed her off immensely. She felt that loneliness and pain being morphed into anger. She let it completely flow over her, building up, threatening to spill, and then two people came into the house, both carrying heavy-looking guns.
Her dad taught a lesson about guns, but she pretty much zoned out until it came to the part she got to shoot them. Now that was fun. She would gladly shoot any gun her father put into her hand.
This was different, though. The fear gripped her, and as they moved around the kitchen, at one point, they looked in her direction but she knew they couldn’t see her. Not unless they had night vision goggles. They didn’t make a sound. No conversation. Just silence.
Once they turned off the stove and shook their heads, they made their way out of the kitchen, and that was when she struck. Two pans of boiling water, one in each hand, and going behind them, she tossed them at the men and quickly ran for it. The guns went off, and she knew they were firing in her direction. More chaos ensued, and Morwenna knew Bolt was on the attack.
She was going to be sick, but she swallowed it down and grabbed a couple of knives. A third man was coming into the kitchen, and he was not expecting her, so she launched herself at him, thrusting the sharp kitchen blades into his flesh, the exposed parts, as they were wearing bulletproof vests.
This time, with him down, bleeding out, looking shocked and scared, she grabbed his gun. Again, she didn’t have a clue on the make, nor the model, but she knew this one fired a lot of bullets. This was one her father didn’t let her play with, nor Bolt.
She never questioned why he had it. Her father always said he was a gun collector, whereas now, she was starting to believe there was an entirely different reason for it, one she’d never considered before.
Bolt let out a grunt, and Morwenna rushed into the hallway to see one of the men on the floor, and another thrusting a blade into Bolt’s stomach. She shot the gun, taking the man out as she fired into his head. Bolt looked at her, and she rushed forward and pulled him into her arms.
“Fuck, this hurts,” Bolt said. “This is not good.”
“Shut up, don’t say that. Come on, we’ve got to get upstairs.”
She gritted her teeth and helped take Bolt upstairs, shoving open a door and laying him on one of the beds. She rushed into the bathroom, grabbing towels and quickly pressing them on his wound. There had to be at least three.
“You can’t die,” she said.
“Why? Would you miss me?” he asked, and coughed.
She wanted to slap him right now, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. She felt tears in her eyes, and she felt so sick. Pressing down on the wound, she tried not to panic, but then she looked behind her as she heard movement downstairs.