Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Rather than move an inch, which would indicate I’m still alive, I cease all movement.
Still my chest.
Hold my breath.
Give no clue that I’m lying-in wait as opposed to welcoming death.
An unimpressed grunt is given at the same time I feel my ankle is forcefully grappled. “Pheticat.”
Nothing like being called pathetic in another language.
And I’m not fucking pathetic.
It’s just that I had momentarily forgotten that orcs—particularly the females—hit with the force of a fucking freight train.
It’s all coming back to me now.
And my face.
Especially my face.
Remaining lifeless-like continues until she’s successfully dragged me from the wall where I was temporarily imprisoned and out into the remnants of what was once my immaculately put together workspace. At that point, I crack a single eye open just enough to see her back is to me. The next decision made is almost as swift as the action itself. I swing my other foot her direction, partially shifting from my Awaker form to my dragon one so that my claws puncture the skin they cross. Hisses are dropped in tandem with my appendage. The new freedom has me rolling away and hopping back onto my feet as she unhurriedly examines the gashes to her forearm. Dark crimson rivers rush towards the ground, a sight that should instill worry or at very least concern in her expression, yet the colossal combatant simply swipes away the fluid from its current area to smear it down her tongue in a wordless barbaric declaration.
I misspoke earlier.
This is by no means fun or enjoyable.
And it is unquestionably harder when you’re stuck in your futile fucking Awaker form that can only handle a fraction of your true strength instead of one that would end this fight before it could ever truly begin.
The pain in my face quickly amplifies as I exhale several, smoke-filled breaths, overwhelming the area with thick, platinum, poisonous puffs. Not only does the haze buy me a couple moments to build significant space from the assailant, it also aids in transiently hindering her actions.
What I need to do is get to my desk where there’s an emergency weapon for subduing an attacker.
Said weapon caused my siblings to laugh at me—almost to the point of tears—for insisting that I have it on hand.
A.D. called me paranoid while smacking on a doosemelon.
Z rolled his eyes, sucked egg white remains out of his teeth, and told me that I worry too much.
Both mouthy little shits claimed that it was unnecessary since shifting into our dragon form pretty much wins every assault.
Yeah.
It does when you can fucking do that.
How they’ve failed to see the importance in having at least one alternative plan—if not more—both irks and saddens me.
On one claw, it’s like how can you be so fucking short-sided about this shit considering the hell that’s occurred over the past few months?
And then on the other…well, on the other, I feel like a shitty big brother for not having figured how to have taught them better.
Like I’ve failed stepping into our father’s place.
Like I’m failing him as much as them.
And creatures wonder why I work so fucking much.
It’s the only shit I know I’m not screwing up.
At least not according to the quarterly reports.
The opportunity to gather my bearings in the clouded room is painfully short-lived. I’m barely able to move more than three steps towards the hidden desk when a green fist of fury is flying through the air for my already battered face. Dodging is done in an oscillating pattern of left and right until the swings require me to drop down or bend backwards like I’m one of those stupid inflatable tube things they have on display at Sleeper car dealerships. All of her continual jabbing leaves me on the defensive which is not where I prefer to be. Most creatures would’ve sucked in enough of the tainted air by this point, allowing the proverbial tables to be turned, yet this crafty nightmare wrapped her long, thick black hair around her face to create a makeshift mask to properly shield her mouth and nose.
Fuck my life.
Of course it’s going to be me—of all the fucking Draaks—who gets attacked by an intelligent being versus just another warm body to throw our direction.
At least this increases the odds of her knowing some useful shit.
Although, given the amount of fight she’s currently putting up I think it’s safe to assume she won’t be volunteering any info once she’s restrained.
Instinct is screaming it’ll require broken bones.
Hopefully just hers.
An unexpected kick to the chest sends me soaring backwards onto the desk I was blindly searching for just moments ago. Landing on top of the wireless keyboard isn’t ideal nor is the monitor crashing to the ground—ultimately giving away my new location—but the spot does provide me with easy access to the top drawer of my desk where the object I need is tucked away. Pain relentlessly pumps through my chest; however, ignoring it is mandatory. There isn’t time to dwell on the fact she most likely bruised some ribs or possibly punctured a lung.