Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
The president’s voice cuts through the air behind me. “You understand now, peaches?”
I don’t look up. I keep pressure on the wound. “I understand you’re desperate,” I state keeping my voice solid like steel.
He laughs softly. “Desperate enough to make you earn that ride you took on with your Hellion.”
The words twist inside me, hot and humiliating. How do they know about Miles? Who are these men? I clench my jaw. Miles’ face flashes in my mind—the way his eyes soften when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his touch is rough but careful like he’s learning how to hold something precious without breaking it. The way he blinks before he locks his gaze to mine when he comes. The intensity he doesn’t hide from me.
They’re taking me from him. They’re using me like leverage.
It makes me sad. It makes me furious. It makes something hard as iron form in my chest. Because I’m not going to let them write the ending.
Not if I can help it.
I keep working. I clean. I apply pressure. I assess. I try to think through what I can do without killing Duke.
The president leans closer again. “You do this right,” he taunts, “and maybe you get to go home.”
Maybe. The word is a lie dressed as mercy. “And if I don’t?” I ask, because I need him to say it. I need to hear the stakes in his voice so I can measure his cruelty.
He straightens, casual. “Then I kill your granddad,” he smirks. “Then I kill you, but you seem fun. So I’ll play with you first. Share you with my boys.” He pauses, and his smile returns. “And then I go find some other poor nurse who wants to live.”
The room echoes with low laughter again. But this time it doesn’t make me small.
It makes me cold. Because I hear what they’re not saying. They’re not saying they’ll let me live even if I succeed. They’re not saying Grandpa is safe even if I save their brother.
They’re saying do it or die. While this very well might be do it and still die.
Which means my survival isn’t in their plan. So I need a plan of my own. I glance around the room while my hands keep moving. I catalog details like I’m building a map in my head.
There’s a window behind the covered sheet—maybe nailed shut, maybe not. There’s a dresser with drawers half-open. There’s a door to the hallway. Three men in the room with me and the victim, one with a gun, one with arms crossed. I don’t have a count of the men on the other side of the door.
The president moves to stand in the doorway, watching.
Others in the hall, I can hear them shifting, murmuring. No easy exits. But exits aren’t always doors.
Sometimes they’re time. Sometimes they’re opportunity. Sometimes they’re mistakes.
I focus on Duke.
If he crashes, they’ll panic. If they panic, they’ll move. If they move, someone will slip. Letting him suffer goes against everything I have been trained to do. I took an oath to do no harm. Can I do this?
My stomach turns with the ugliness of it, but I can’t afford morals right now. Not with Grandpa’s face known by these men. Not with Miles out there, probably tearing up highways, probably blaming himself, probably furious enough to burn down the world.
I press a new bandage into place.
Duke’s breathing is still fast, but he’s more present now, eyes cracked open.
“Duke,” I whisper, low enough the men might not catch it. “Do you know where your people took my grandfather?”
His eyes flicker, confused. “What?” he rasps.
I shake my head slightly, a warning not to answer if it’s dangerous. Never mind.
Think smart.
One step at a time. I look up at the president, meeting his gaze for the first time since we entered the room.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
His eyebrows lift like he’s entertained.
“You don’t get to know my name.”
“I need to call you something,” I state evenly. “If you want me to help your brother, I need communication.”
He smiles wider. “Call me whatever you want. You wanna call me Daddy, I won’t complain, Peaches.”
My stomach rolls in disgust. I nod slowly trying to keep my composure. “Fine,” I retort. “Then I’ll call you President.”
A few men chuckle.
The president’s eyes sharpen, but he doesn’t correct me. Power likes to be known and acknowledged.
“President,” I begin, keeping my tone clinical, “if you want him alive, I need to know if the bullet is lodged or if it passed through. I need to know if anyone saw the trajectory.”
“No one saw shit,” someone snaps.
“Then we’re guessing,” I state. “Guessing can kill him.”
The president steps into the room, closer now. “You ain’t here to make excuses,” he replies sharply. “You’re here to make it work.”
I stare at him, letting my fear show just enough to look real, not enough to look weak. “I’m here to keep him alive,” I state. “But you need to understand—if he starts vomiting blood, if his belly turns rigid, if he can’t breathe, he’s dying. And I can’t fix that in a house.”