Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I try to sit up.
Pain punches through my ribs, the ache spreading to my shoulders, my legs, everywhere. My stomach clenches, nausea clawing at my throat with every sharp inhale.
Is this a nightmare?
A different type of nightmare?
My arms tremble as I push myself upright, breathing through the sharp, electric pulses overflowing my nerves.
I move like I haven’t moved in a long time, and that’s when the first spark of recognition hits me.
Memories of the attack, Julian, and his stupid Nietzsche book slam through me. That was hours ago, right?
Swinging my legs off the bed is an effort. Cold air bites at my bare feet and zaps through my bones, and I press a hand against the wall as I push myself up, my legs shaking like they might buckle at any second.
Like I’m learning how to walk all over again.
Still grabbing onto the wall, I walk out of the room, and the farther I go, the tighter my chest gets.
Everything about this place feels wrong.
The house is small, painfully neat, like a picture someone arranged for the sake of appearances. A single untouched gray couch sits in the living room. A fireplace stands cold and empty. Through the large glass window, the outside world is coated with snow, the sky a vast, unforgiving gray that stretches endlessly.
I swallow hard. My heartbeat pounds in an erratic, stuttering rhythm.
Snow?
It’s…September. Why is there snow?
The outside world feels out of sync with my internal one. Like I’m playing catch-up with reality, but something isn’t adding up.
I nearly fall, and I hold on to the sofa for balance. My gaze flicks to a small stack of newspapers on the sleek black coffee table.
I don’t realize I’m reaching for them until my fingers skim the top one. The pages feel thin and strange under my fingertips, new, even—
My hand clenches around the paper when I read the date.
Late December.
No.
It was September. Fall.
It was just a few hours ago when Julian was sitting beside me, flipping through a book and watching me like I was nothing more than cattle lined up for slaughter.
But now…it’s December?
Three months?
My stomach plunges.
The room sways and warps around me, and I collapse onto the sofa, my breath ragged and sharp, every inhale slicing through my ribs like shattered glass.
I’ve been gone for three whole months, but my brain refuses to recognize it.
A sharp, shrill ring shatters the silence, and even my jumpiness is sluggish as I see the phone that’s sitting beside the newspapers.
My fingers shake as I pick it up, pressing it to my ear.
Silence.
Then a low, controlled voice fills my ears. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Violet.”
Julian.
“Where am I?” My voice is hoarse, fractured, almost alien.
“Rhode Island. The start of the new life I promised. You need to lay low for a while as I arrange your transfer to Seattle.”
“D-Dahlia. Where’s Dahlia?”
A slow exhale filters through the receiver like he’s indulging me with the bare minimum of patience. “She will join you shortly.”
Oh, thank God.
She’s okay.
And I’m alive.
Does this mean it’s all over now? Am I allowed to breathe properly?
“Before then, you’ll be visited by my doctors for a final checkup to assess your body’s regenerative capabilities.”
“What about Mario?”
“In a real coma. Will probably never wake up.”
My throat closes.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
God. What have I done to poor Mario?
My jumbled thoughts start to filter in. Memories? No—words. Dahlia’s mostly, but also…
My heart thuds as fragments of dark promises and a deep voice I could never forget filter through.
Jude.
He was there somewhere.
My head hurts the longer I think about it. I think I woke up at some point, opening my eyes, even, but how long ago was it? I remember seeing the snow outside, the TV was on, and the Vipers were playing.
Jude slammed someone, and I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn’t. I was surrounded by people in white and…
“Her pulse is unsteady,” one of them said mechanically.
And then Dahlia was kissing a player on TV—Number 19, Davenport.
Why was Dahlia kissing someone from the Vipers…?
The memory slips through my fingers as fast as it appeared, like sea foam, disintegrating with each of my breaths.
And then another grainy, distorted memory hits me—a large hand on my face, hot breaths skimming my lips, and unintelligible words.
I inhale and exhale harshly into the phone. “Was Jude by my side recently?”
“Yes. He kidnapped you, but I saved you in time. You owe me a considerable number of favors, Violet.”
“Kidnapped me? Why?”
“You know exactly why.”
To finish what he started and kill me.
But if he wanted to kill me, wouldn’t he have had many chances to do that while I was sleeping?
Yes, Julian mentioned that Jude would have no access to me while I was in a coma, but knowing how resourceful Jude can be, he could have found me.