Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
He didn’t smile, tension knotting his muscles. “Who are you?”
Sadness crept from nowhere. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”
He looked away, anger granting him energy. He rolled off me as if he couldn’t stand to be close anymore. Staring at the ceiling, he growled, “Fine, fix me.”
I sat up, pressing a palm against my aching back.
Kill added, “I give you my word that I’ll lie here and let you poke me with a goddamn needle. I’ll even permit you to wave the gun in my face if it makes you feel safer, but I want something in return.”
My eyebrows rose. “You want more than your life? That’s a bit greedy, don’t you think?”
His head turned, his green eyes latching onto mine. “I want to know everything about you. The scars. The tattoos. All of it. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what I have to do to make you remember.” The air shimmered as his temper grew. “But I’ll tell you this—if you lie to me, I’ll kill you. Fair and fucking simple. I don’t know if you’re bullshitting me or if this is real, but regardless—one lie, and you’re done.”
He held up a finger, pointing rudely in my face. “You never lie to me. The moment you do, your life is over and this”—he waved between us—“whatever is going on with us—this ridiculous cease-fire—it’s over. I’ll sell you and never think of you again. I’m through being manipulated, sweetheart, and you do not want to make me your enemy.”
He slapped a hand over his wound, his body bowing off the tiles. “You agree to those terms?”
I trembled with hope. The connection—the inexplicable bond throbbed. “I do. But only if you promise never to lie to me in return.”
He closed his eyes, his forehead furrowing with grief. “Sometimes lies are the only thing keeping us sane. I won’t give you that promise.” His words were final. Absolute.
I hated that he asked so much from me, but I might never get what I needed in return. “And if I can’t tell you the story. If I never remember?”
He shrugged awkwardly, his jaw clenching. “Then you’ll just have to stay in the dark and I’ll get rid of you. Don’t make me regret every fucking thing I’ve ever done.”
My hands clenched. “What do you regret?” Was it something to do with… us? “Please… do you know me or not?” Anxiousness made my heart thrum with pain. “Please…”
He coughed. “Go get the medical kit. I’m not feeling—” His face went slack.
Dammit.
Scuttling to my feet, I left the office and its multitude of computer screens, and dashed into the foyer. I tried two doors—one to a sitting room and another to a TV den, before finding the bathroom.
It felt strange to be running around barefoot and without underwear in the home of a man who’d stolen me from my life and who ran a motorcycle gang.
All thoughts of leaving were gone.
The front door didn’t tease, nor did the phone on the cradle by the staircase.
Nothing could give me what I needed.
Only the surly man bleeding on the floor.
What if he refuses to tell you?
What if he gets tired and sells you?
My thoughts demanded some rational reasoning, but I couldn’t give them any. I just knew I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
This might be your only chance. You can’t trust him.
Trusting him was the price I had to pay. He said he’d keep me until I could tell him the story of my tattoo and scars. It might take me a day to remember, or a year.
He’d keep me.
You hope.
Turning my thoughts off, I entered the bathroom where a glassed shower, toilet, and single vanity welcomed me with white sparkling mosaic tiles. There was no mirror, leaving me to wonder what I looked like.
Another image of mathematical equations hung from the crisp walls.
The computers and frames—was he a genius? An evil mastermind who pulled the strings of the world through the use of code?
Opening the under sink cupboard, I found what I was looking for. Grabbing the bright red plastic box with the white cross, I made my way back into the office.
Kill lay on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, his lips parted.
He didn’t move as I fell to my knees beside him and unlatched the case. He didn’t twitch as I grabbed the sterile scissors and cut his ruined T-shirt away.
I pushed the bloody garment off his shoulders and his arm fell away from his eyes. He was unconscious again.
I hope you stay that way for the next part.
Staring at the medical kit, I selected some antiseptic wipes, ripped open a needle, and threaded medical-grade twine. The kit was well equipped, more so than a normal, everyday one. Why did he have the need for something with its own battery pack and defibrillators?