Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
When they’d been separated for that year, Law had begun to suffocate. He’d lost a little more oxygen with each passing day until he could barely breathe, as if his heart couldn’t beat without him.
That kind of panic—that kind of love—wasn’t rational. It was wild. Ugly. Devouring.
He knew what he’d done—what he kept doing—wasn’t fair.
He knew it.
He just hoped Wes would see this last offense for what it really was.
A last-ditch effort to earn his love.
Back in the department, everything had returned to normal, as if they’d been bowling last night, instead of dodging bullets.
Ruxs and Green were in gym shorts and compression shirts, shooting hoops at the portable net in the corner. Their aim was spot-on, their trash talk too damn loud.
Tech and Steele sat at a small table, locked in a game of chess that looked more like an intellectual battle for dominance.
Steele made a move without breaking eye contact, and Tech licked his lips before he returned fire with a bishop. The sexual tension between them could’ve set off the damn smoke alarm.
Michaels was half-reclined in a leather gaming chair, playing Call of Duty, hammering at the controller. He had a headset on, barking obscenities at some other gamer—who was most likely some fourteen-year-old kid in another state.
And Free… Free was back at his multi-screen setup, typing like a possessed pianist, one monitor covered with scrolling code, the other playing a muted episode of Squid Game.
The chaos of the raid, outrage of the precinct captain, stress of their lieutenants, the threat of IA, the inevitability of it all happening again soon seemed to be buried under a grim reality of “just another day at the office.”
Law’s stomach twisted. It was like stepping out of a burning building and realizing no one else had felt the heat but him.
Beside him, Wes stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth parted in disbelief, eyes wide and locked on the scene.
He didn’t say a word, just spun on his heels and stalked through the bullpen with angry, purposeful strides.
For a split second, Law thought he was leaving. But he veered toward the elevators and punched at the up button repeatedly.
Law didn’t chase him. Even though everything in him screamed to.
He shoved his fists in his pockets, chest aching—battered and bruised—but he didn’t move. He couldn’t show remorse or fear. Not now. Not here.
Free narrowed his eyes at him before he pulled his lunch bag from under his desk and left the office, disappearing inside the same elevator Wes had taken.
“Yo, Sheppard’s back!” Ruxs blurted. “When I saw you run out of that building like Forrest Gump, I thought I’d never see you again.”
Law felt that joke like a punch to the stomach.
Ruxs jogged to him and grabbed him in a tight hug. “Bring it in close, man, come on. I thought you were a goner when you ran away screaming at the top of your lungs.”
Law stood there stiff and pissed off.
Ruxs rubbed his back affectionately, but Law knew he was only trying to embarrass him more than he already was.
Ruxs reached down and pulled Law’s arms up and put them around his narrow waist.
“That’s right,” Ruxs sighed. “Chest to chest, tip to tip.”
The team laughed as Law shoved Ruxs away.
“Fuck off,” he said, then gestured for the ball, doing his best to play off the humiliation. “I don’t scare so easily.”
Green tossed the ball to him. He caught it, dribbled a few times, and spun it in his hands before he tossed it towards the basket.
He didn’t feel like playing. Didn’t feel like moving.
He shot an airball, and Ruxs gave him shit for that too, but he didn’t care.
Nothing mattered except that Wes wouldn’t stay mad for long. He’d recognize Law’s selfless sacrifice and help him.
He played for five more minutes. Maybe ten. Not really keeping track. Just moving, sweating, existing, faking.
Wesley (Wes) Drake
Wes wanted to torch the breakroom.
Not a full-on incineration, just a slow, righteous burn. Watch as the tile melted through the floor and bubble up like boils on flesh. Let the thin-ass counters warp and scream beneath the heat, and the overhead fluorescent lights pop and explode in protest.
He stood motionless in front of the microwave, fists clenched in the pockets of his bomber jacket, his breath uneven from the suppressed rage.
It had taken everything—every ounce of discipline in him—not to start flinging chairs or ripping the damn vending machines away from the walls and lighting them up with one of his thermite strips.
Instead, he stood there. Simmering. Barely containing the inferno clawing under his skin.
He needed to let all this shit out.
Maybe load up on some fireworks, flares, magnesium strips, anything that would ignite, flare, and give light to the dark places in his head.
That was the only thing that would settle him now. Not talking. Not food and definitely not another damn training simulation.