Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
So I pull the trigger.
The shotgun round blasts out the twelve-inch barrel with a deafening crack that echoes through the trees, and the trunk of a pine just to the left of Ryan's shoulder explodes in a spray of bark and splinters. Wood fragments pepper his face. He flinches—finally—stumbling sideways with his hands up like that'll stop the next one.
I tilt my head at Ryan Adamson as I rack the sawed-off. Curious. What is going through that head of his right now? "Do I need to ask you again?"
He shakes out a no answer, then turns. His bare feet stumbling on the path as he limps forward. His fingertips automatically scratching the bloody bites all over his naked body.
Ryan proceeds, his naked body weaving between trees as I chuckle when his feet catch on roots and rocks. I watch him flinch when branches scrape his insect-ravaged skin. Enjoying it.
I'm already planning how he dies.
Slow. Obviously. But not elaborate.
The barn will do fine. Concrete floor. Drain. Hose. The cameras are already installed—six angles, motion-activated, cloud backup. I'll record everything. Archive it. Maybe I'll watch it later when I'm thinking about Scarletta and need something to push me over the edge.
My cock thickens against my zipper.
I picture Ryan strung up from the ceiling beam. Bleeding out slowly while I explain exactly what he did wrong. While I describe in graphic detail what Scarletta looks like when she comes.
How she whimpers my name, not his.
How I am her Helix, not him.
I reach down and adjust myself through my jeans, feeling the unmistakable throb of arousal. The denim constrains my partial erection, forcing me to shift my grip on the shotgun as I palm myself briefly.
The trees thin ahead. My cabin materializes through the pines. The barn squats beside it, utterly unremarkable from the outside if you don't look close.
But on the inside—which is clearly visible now, I made damn sure of it, left both barn doors thrown wide open—there's a gambrel and two industrial meat hooks dangling from the ceiling.
It hangs from heavy-gauge chain looped through the rafters. The chain connects to an electric hoist mounted on the beam above. The kind of equipment you'd use on a farm to hoist a slaughtered pig by its hind legs, suspend the carcass at working height for scalding and gutting.
The kind that can lift eight hundred pounds without breaking a sweat.
It's overkill for this situation. But… that's me. Mr. Overkill.
Ryan stops at the barn entrance. His shoulders tense. His head tilts slightly as he registers the gambrel, the hooks, the concrete floor with the drain centered beneath the hoist.
I watch the understanding ripple through his body. The way his breathing changes. The instinctive half-step backward before he catches himself.
I nudge the shotgun barrel between his shoulder blades. "Keep moving."
The sound hits me before I process it. Gravel crunching under tires. Engine noise climbing the access road.
My head snaps toward the driveway. The black Jeep comes up the hill like a speed demon, dust trailing behind it like a contrail, then skids to a stop, spraying gravel.
Scarletta? What the fuck is she doing here? How did she even—
Ryan moves.
His elbow drives into my throat with force. My vision whites out. The pain is immediate and blinding. His hand clamps around the shotgun barrel, shoving it wide as my finger involuntarily contracts on the trigger.
The blast tears through the barn wall. Splinters explode outward. The recoil rips the weapon from my grip and it skitters across the concrete, tumbling end over end until it slides out into the driveway.
We hit the ground together. Hard. My skull cracks against concrete and the world tilts sideways.
Ryan's weight crashes down on top of me with the full force of his body. His hips shift immediately—not wild thrashing, not desperate scrambling. Deliberate and controlled. The kind of precision that comes from muscle memory so deep it bypasses conscious thought.
His legs snake around my torso in a fluid motion, pulling guard with textbook efficiency. His thighs lock tight across my ribs as he fights for dominant position, every micro-adjustment executed with the kind of technical mastery you only acquire after thousands of hours on the mat.
Twelve hours tied to a tree covered in insect bites doesn't erase muscle memory, and the way he moves tells me everything I should've known, but didn't.
Brazilian Ju-jitsu.
I try to buck him off but he's already transitioned. His arm slides under my chin. The other threads behind my head. His forearm presses against my carotid artery like he's done this thousands of times.
Rear naked choke.
The pressure builds immediately. My vision narrows at the edges. I claw at his arm but he's locked in tight. Hips controlled. Weight distributed perfectly.
Ryan's breath is hot against my ear. "Who the fuck sent you?"
I can't answer. Can't breathe. The world is going grey.