Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“That’s between you and Calder.”
“No, it ain’t.” Wayne shakes his head. “Roman’s watching me like a hawk since your husband started whispering in his ear. And I know what happens to people Roman doesn’t trust.”
“You should leave. Now.”
His expression darkens. “Not until I get what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“Leverage.” He pushes harder, making me step back just enough that he can wedge his boot in the door. “And maybe a little taste of what Calder’s been keeping all to himself.”
Fear spikes through me, followed by a cold, hard anger. I’m not the same girl who was taken from her home that night.
“Move your foot,” I say, voice low, “or I’ll make you move it.”
He laughs. “You’re gonna make me? That’s rich. What, you gonna—”
I slam the door against his foot with all my strength. He howls, pulling back just enough that I can slam it shut and throw the deadbolt.
His fist pounds the wood. “You bitch! Open this door!”
I back away, heart hammering. The pounding continues. The door won’t hold forever. I need a weapon.
My eyes find the shotgun above the fireplace. Calder didn’t say a thing about it, but I’m hoping he keeps it loaded and ready. I learned how to fire something similar when I was thirteen, so this shouldn’t be so different. I grab a chair and climb up. The shotgun is heavy in my hands, but the weight is reassuring. I check if it’s loaded. Of course it is. Calder is always prepared.
The pounding stops, and for a second, I think maybe Wayne has given up. Then the glass shattering in the kitchen makes my heart stop in my throat—he’s breaking in.
I position myself in the hallway where I can see the kitchen entrance but still have cover. The shotgun feels awkward in my hands, but I remember my father’s instructions from way back then: stock against shoulder, finger along the trigger guard, aim for center mass.
Wayne’s boots crunch on broken glass, and I try to pinpoint his trajectory by the sound.
“Come on out, preacher’s daughter,” he calls. “I just want to talk. Maybe have a little fun.”
I stay silent, heart pounding. The shotgun grows heavier in my trembling hands.
“Your husband’s been real slick lately,” Wayne continues, closer now. “Playing both sides. But I’m smarter than he thinks. Found out some interesting things about his comings and goings. And you, little Mrs. Bishop, might be just the leverage I need.”
He rounds the corner and freezes when he sees me, the shotgun aimed at his chest. His eyes widen, then narrow.
“Now, now.” He raises his hands, a mocking gesture. “What are you gonna do with that, little girl? You ever even fired a gun before?”
I don’t answer, just tighten my grip, and cock the slide. It echoes loud between us. More of a threat than anything I can say.
He steps forward. “Put it down before you hurt yourself.”
“Stay back.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He ignores me, taking another step. “You won’t shoot me. You’re the preacher’s daughter. Good little Saintlyn who helps at the community center. Not a killer.”
“I’m not that girl anymore.” The words come out raw, honest. “Your family made sure of that.”
“My family?” He laughs. “I ain’t no Bishop, sweetheart. Just work for them. Same as you now, I guess. Though your position seems a lot more . . . horizontal.”
He lunges suddenly, grabbing for the barrel. I stumble back, finger slipping to the trigger, but I don’t pull it, not yet. We struggle, his hands trying to pry the weapon from mine. He’s stronger, and I feel the shotgun slipping from my grasp.
“Just—give it—here,” he grunts.
In the struggle, my back hits the wall, making my hip connect with a low table, and pain lances through my brand. I gasp, my grip loosening. Wayne seizes the advantage, wrenching the shotgun toward himself.
The front door crashes open, and a blur of motion slams into Wayne, driving him away from me. Calder. His fist connects with Wayne’s jaw with a sickening crack.
“Calder!” I cry out, clutching the shotgun again now that he’s not trying to wrench it away.
He doesn’t look at me, his focus entirely on Wayne. Something is terrifying in Calder’s eyes, a cold fury I’ve never seen before.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Calder says, voice deadly quiet.
Wayne spits blood. “Figured it was time we had a chat about your games. About how you’ve been making me look like a thief when we both know it’s you they should be keeping a closer eye on.”
“And you thought breaking into my house and threatening my wife was the way to have that conversation?” Calder’s voice is measured, but I can see the rage vibrating through him.
“Wasn’t threatening. Just talking.” Wayne’s eyes flick to me. “Until she tried to blow my head off.”
“She should have.” Calder steps forward. “Would’ve saved me the trouble.”