Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
He makes a sound. Wet. Gurgling.
I shove him off me, roll to my knees, ribs shrieking in protest. My hands are shaking. Everything's shaking.
The office door explodes open.
Three guards, weapons drawn, and I'm still on the floor, covered in blood, my Glock somewhere on the other side of the room—
“Northeast corner,” Luce snaps. “Gun. Three feet from your position.”
I lunge.
The first shot hits the doorframe by my head. Splinters spray. I grab the Glock, roll, come up firing.
One. Two. Three.
Each shot precise despite the trembling in my hands. Between the eyes, center of the throat, two in the chest and one in the head.
They drop.
Silence crashes down like a physical thing.
I'm standing in the middle of a slaughterhouse, breathing hard, ribs grinding with each inhale. Blood everywhere. Bodies everywhere. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering, casting everything in sick yellow shadows.
“Ivy.” Daniel's voice is carefully controlled. “Status.”
I prod my ribs gently, bite back a whimper. “Alive. Mostly.”
“Target?”
I look at Jarvis. He's stopped twitching. The pool of blood around him is spreading, dark and glossy.
“Confirmed.”
“Get out,” Luce says. “Now. Before—”
Sirens. Distant but growing closer.
“Fuck.” I'm moving before I finish the word, grabbing my knife from the wall, from Jarvis neck, wiping blades on a dead guard's shirt. My Glock goes back in its holster. Each movement sends fresh pain through my chest.
The stairs are a nightmare. Each step is agony, ribs grinding, but I force myself to move. Fast. Faster.
I hit the main floor at a stumbling run, heading for the service door. Cold air hits my face like a slap.
The car door is already open.
I collapse into the backseat and Daniel floors it before I can even close the door properly. Tires squeal. The warehouse recedes in the side mirror, getting smaller, guards spilling out onto the loading dock, too late, too slow.
“Jesus Christ.” Daniel glances at me, then back at the road. “You look like hell.”
“Feel worse.” I slump against the seat, pressing one hand to my ribs. When I pull it away, there's blood. Mine or Jarvis, I can't tell anymore.
My earpiece crackles.
“Ivy.” Luce's voice is shaky. Relief and fury mixing together. “Don't ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Nearly die.”
I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. “Wasn't planning on it.”
“You never are.” Punk this time. “I'll divert the cops for a bit and call in clean up just to be sure.”
The city blurs past outside the window. Lights and shadows. The choker sits heavy against my throat, and for one insane moment I wonder what Asher would think if he could see me now. Covered in blood. Broken ribs. Hands still shaking from adrenaline comedown.
You're terrified of wanting anything.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't need to check it to know—
Asher: How's your night going?
I stare at the message, then at my bloodstained gloves, then back at the message.
Me: Quiet. Boring. You?
Asher: Same. What are you wearing
My laugh leaves me through bloody lips, catching Daniel's attention.
Me: Pretty sure you don't want to know.
I lock the phone, lean my head back, and focus on breathing through the pain.
In my ear, Luce, and Punk are already dissecting the job, analyzing what went wrong, what went right. Professional. Clinical.
But underneath it all, I hear what they're not saying.
You're slipping.
You're distracted.
This almost got you killed.
I know. Tonight was my last until my current…
Chapter 7
Asher
It's been two weeks since I left her, saying I'd be back the next morning. Two fucking weeks that felt like my damn heart was being ripped out of my chest. I'd had friends before. Fucking many. Hell, I'd been well acquainted with a social system, yet never.
Never had I ever felt the way I do about anyone the way I do Ivy.
Shit is fucked up and will have me checked into rehab.
I tell myself I’m over it by the time I hit Lake Shore.
I’m not.
I slam the doors to my Aston Martin, rolling my shoulders back, settling into the smug asshole I wear for her. Go in cocky, keep it light, pretend I haven’t spent two weeks thinking about her mouth.
Door opens, and every planned word evaporates.
She stands there in tiny shorts and a ribbed white tank that hides nothing, hair yanked into a knot like she did it while moving. Bare feet. Necklace I put on her shining at her throat, the white gold and barbed wire hugging her skin.
And her face. The right side of her face is fucked. Yellow-brown bloom under the concealer, skin swollen along the edge of her eye socket. Healing bruise, two weeks old, maybe a little less.
My first thought is kill. It’s not poetic. It’s not noble. It’s just that. A blade of intent dropping through my body, clean, simple.
Her eyes flick up to mine, and her mouth tightens. “Asher.”
Just my name. No smile. No soft anything.
I step forward on pure reflex, then stop. My gaze scans down her body—careful, clinical, hunting damage.