Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
What happened then?
Would she still want me?
Would she change her mind about the future she’d told me about?
Would she go back to her old life instead?
Because it was easier. Because it felt safer. Because it was not as risky as admitting she wanted me. And a brand new life away from everything she had ever known.
“You’re quiet,” she remarked as we stood in a new spot to try to get a better view of the front door.
“Was just thinking—” I started.
But just then, the front door opened.
And out walked one of Roach’s guys.
I remembered this one from the files.
Wayne-something. He had perpetually filthy, stringy blond hair, wide-set eyes, and old white supremacy tattoos from prison. Where he’d gone away for (coming as no surprise to anyone) rape.
So there wasn’t exactly shock in my gut as I watched him half-dragging a skinny brunette out of the front door, his grip hard enough to bruise, yanking so hard that he made her shoulder lurch back at an awkward angle as she cried out.
Beside me, Dylan stiffened.
Her eyes were huge as she zeroed in on the woman.
“Diana,” she whispered.
Wayne reached back, slamming the front door, then letting out a sick laugh as the woman struggled against his hold.
“Dylan,” I said, my voice both soft and firm at the same time.
Because I could practically hear her inner battle.
I was having my own.
But we were insanely outnumbered.
They were armed.
There were innocent women around somewhere.
We had to be smart.
Careful.
No matter how hard it was to watch the Wayne bastard manhandle one of the girls.
Maybe, maybe we all could have kept our cool if shit didn’t go any further.
But we stood there and we watched as he forced the struggling woman down on her knees, then reached to free his dick.
We weren’t close enough to hear what Diana said. But we saw the way her head shook almost violently side to side.
A no was a no even without words.
Wayne’s slap to her cheek was loud enough to reach us, hard enough to make Diana whip to the side.
But he was undeterred.
He reached down, gathered a handful of her hair, yanked her back up to her knees, and moved himself closer to her face.
And that was it.
I think for all of us.
Dylan was just faster.
She was halfway through the clearing before I even took two steps. I didn’t think she could move that damn fast. She practically blurred.
One second, Wayne was trying to force himself into the woman’s mouth.
The next, he was tackled to the ground.
It probably wasn’t her first instinct.
I’d reached for my gun right off, but our angle was shit and the wind was whipping harder than usual. It wouldn’t be easy to get a clean shot off at a distance. And the gunshot was sure to bring everyone out of the clubhouse, ready to shoot.
Dylan had surprise on her side.
Wayne went down hard, wind too knocked out of him to fight as Dylan’s fist landed blow after blow.
It all probably would have been fine.
But Diana, likely just out of shock, screamed.
And that was it.
All fucking hell broke loose.
I was vaguely aware of movement in the trees in the direction Saint and Syn had come from.
But they weren’t close enough to do jack shit when the door burst open and men spilled out.
Two went right for Dylan.
I went for them.
Her cry of pain made my vision go red as I grabbed one of the fucks by his thin-ass ponytail, pulling so hard I was surprised the damn thing didn’t rip clear out by the roots.
He yowled in pain, swung at the air, but I got him away from Dylan.
One hard uppercut had him sprawled out, letting me reach for the next guy, who was trading blows with a fiery-eyed, bloody-lipped Dylan.
That blood?
That was what signed the motherfucker’s death certificate for him.
He’d made her bleed.
He had to pay.
My knife was in my hand before I was even conscious of my brain saying to reach for it.
It was a nasty thing.
Not a flimsy little folding pocketknife.
It lived in a slot in my boot.
A ten-inch, serrated tactical knife.
Almost identical to the one I’d carried in the service.
The grooves of the handle felt familiar in my hand.
The practiced hold came back to me with ease.
As did the way I closed in on the bastard, yanked his head to the side to expose his neck, and rammed the knife into his carotid.
Blood poured.
Over at me.
All over the stunned Dylan.
But I only noticed that for a second or two.
Because something wide and hard closed around my throat from behind, pulling back hard, and immediately cutting off my airflow.
My hands went for it automatically, before my training even kicked in.
The knife fell from my hand down near Dylan’s side as she started to scramble up, her eyes huge.
My blood was rushing too hard in my ears to hear her yell, but I saw the way her lips formed my name.