Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
It was still hard to see in the dark room, but I was pretty sure I caught the bastard somewhere near his nose.
Wherever the blow landed, it was with enough force that his hands automatically released me.
I didn’t pause to count my luck.
I rolled to the other side of the bed while gasping for air, surprised how much oxygen could hurt after being deprived of it for so long.
Hands shot out, grabbing my ankles, then dragging me before I could even try to kick out.
I couldn’t even breathe fully yet, let alone scream for help before I was across the bed and his knees were pinning my thighs to keep me in place, a pain that was both blunt and oddly sharp at the same time.
But that was quickly replaced by a new one as a fist slammed into my face.
The pain was like an explosion—a central point of detonation that shot outward until my whole face screamed.
A sharp gasp escaped me but was cut off by a grunt as another blow landed—this time higher, by my eye.
Tears flooded involuntarily down my cheeks as my body rocked, wiggled, writhed, trying to get out from under the silent man’s bulky frame.
A third blow came, but landed near my ear as I jerked out of the way just in time.
Still, my mouth flooded with blood, and there was something hard mixed in with it. My tooth?
Pain, fear, and adrenaline mingled together, giving me more strength—enough to free one of my legs and shove it with everything I had into the guy’s chest, sending him back a step.
As I rolled again—this time toward the foot of the bed—I sucked in a breath and tried to scream.
But only a yelp managed to escape me as hands reached down, deciding to help me along, shoving me until I flew off the end of the bed, landing hard on my side—the impact once again stealing my breath.
Before I could find it again, I heard his heavy footsteps.
Then his body was coming over me, knees caging in my hips as he forced me onto my belly.
Pain ricocheted off every nerve ending as his hand grabbed the back of my neck and slammed my face against the floor.
He was too big, heavy, strong.
There was no getting out from under him.
I drew in as deep a breath as the position allowed.
Then I screamed.
“Raff!”
I didn’t even recognize my own voice—how high, shrill, and animalistic it sounded.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man snarled, his hand shifting and pushing me harder against the floor, making it hard to draw in a breath, let alone scream again.
But just when I was losing hope, I heard them.
Footsteps.
Thundering down the hallway.
Coming closer.
A little whimper escaped me just before the door burst open.
The light from the hallway spilled inward, casting him mostly in shadow. I could only see his legs from my position, but this… this wasn’t Raff.
His legs were too thick around the ankle.
Oh, God.
Had I screamed and brought reinforcements running? Was this guy here to help the other one kill me? Or, maybe worse yet, kidnap me and do who-knew-what with me?
But as the door cracked off the wall, the man on top of me jerked in surprise.
Then his weight was off me as he got to his feet.
I didn’t pause.
I got on all fours and crawled toward the bathroom door as I heard bodies crashing together.
Grunts and heavy breathing filled the room as my hands and knees met the cool tile floor in the bathroom.
Only then did I turn, did I look.
I was right.
It wasn’t Raff.
This was that tall, wide, lumberjack guy.
York.
Wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.
Why had York come to my rescue? Where was Raff?
A pathetic little whimper escaped me as I grabbed the trash can and spat my tooth into it. The blood spraying all around the white liner made a whimper escape me.
There was a thunderous crash then, making my heart drop as my head whipped over.
And there I saw York, face twisted in determination, moving behind my attacker, who was down on his knees.
I watched in a horrific kind of fascination as York wrapped his arm around the man’s throat, his muscles bulging, his face sweating as the other man struggled for five seconds, ten, but by the time I counted to fifteen, the masked attacker was limp, leaning back against York’s wide frame.
But York didn’t move, didn’t shift his arm, just kept press, press, pressing.
My own heartbeat hammered, then little by little, started to slow. Like, I imagined, the other man’s did as well.
It was slow and horrific.
Seconds stretched to minutes, minutes to hours, as I did nothing but watch York strangle the other man.
There was a fierce concentration in York’s face, and his lips moved ever so slightly, but no sound came out.
I could only assume he was counting.