Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I imagine Enzo’s punishments would be far worse than my own. My muscles clench, eyes narrowing.
Fikile guards would understand this…
“Mrs. Fikile, don’t.”
I falter at the Mrs. part, but not enough to make my hand slip.
“What’s with the obsession with the time? Did my impromptu trip fuck up your plans? Who were you expecting? Were you trying to ambush us?” He says nothing, just lifts his hands in surrender. “I will cut this bandana from your face, likely taking some skin with it, if you don’t speak and speak now.”
“Don’t.” He holds my gaze and it’s another red flag. “If you remove the mask, I forfeit my position. My face can’t—”
“Be seen by any, I know. That’s kind of the point here.” I glare, a sense of unease washing over me as my eyes flick up to the hoodie pulled low over his head.
Tension grows at the corners of his eyes, but there is no fear there, which is even more concerning.
Enzo’s men, my men, would most definitely show some sign of concern or distress, and I’m woman enough to admit it has nothing to do with the blade, even if they are well aware I’m prone to drawing blood when I’m pissed or don’t get my way. But that’s nothing in comparison to what they’d really fear facing. This guy is breaking rules, literally staring me in the eye for much longer than necessary, his blue eyes gauging me closely.
I force myself not to react, considering my options as I press the knife a little harder, breaking past that first layer of skin and letting a single drop of blood slip free.
His right hand rises in slow motion, as if he’s trying to show me he has no intention of using it to cause harm, not that I believe him, but my heart pounds harder when his next move is to pull his finger to his lips. He’s telling me not to scream or yell.
Why the fuck would I?
But then the brakes squeal, his eyes widen, and he throws his arm out to keep me from slamming my face in the glass across from me. The bottle breaks around our feet and he curses, seeming to be frantically attempting to slip out from the back seat before the car has come to a full stop. He doesn’t get the chance. A split second later the back door is torn open and heavy arms wrap around my waist, yanking me from the vehicle just as I see him torn from his own seat.
I spin my knife, stabbing it straight into the hand around me, hitting bone and forcing it farther.
A deep growl sounds at my back, and I freeze, head snapping over my shoulder as my heels hit the ground.
But Enzo isn’t looking at me, his glare is pointed across the hood of the car. I follow his gaze to find Mino and three others there, the guard who was inside with me locked between them, blue eyes on mine.
Enzo’s chest rumbles against my back, his hands tightening around my waist. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…” My husband’s words are a thing of nightmares, like the song you hear in a movie right before that burned guy shows up and murders you in your sleep.
The guard, he winks, and my eyes narrow further, frown only deepening when no one appears.
“Okay then,” he hisses, and he must give Mino a look, as in the next moment, his second aims a gun at the side of the guard’s head.
“Touch him and your sister is dead.”
We yank left at the feminine voice, and my jaw drops open at the sight of the seamstress from the boutique—a boutique owned and operated by Delta’s extended family, intended to be a safe space for the females of our world.
“You must be the wife,” Enzo deadpans.
“Victoria Brayshaw.” The blonde smiles, lifting her left hand and wiggling her fingers.
Okay, fake seamstress. Wonder how she pulled that off.
When I look over Victoria’s shoulder, I spot Maddoc coming, the rest of their crew appearing one by one, all from different angles, minus the pregnant one. They’re essentially surrounding us, but not one has a weapon pulled.
I look back to the guard who was in the car with me just as they yank his hood and bandana from his head.
“You,” I mutter. I knew his eyes were familiar.
“Mrs. Fikile.” Captain smirks. “Nice to see you again.”
“I will gut you in the center of this street without a second thought,” Enzo seethes, and I press into him farther when he begins to shake.
“Don’t worry.” Royce appears, stepping right in front of the car, eyes wild, tongue slicing across his lower lip like some kind of wild animal. “We won’t be here much longer.”
Enzo stiffens for a split second, and in the next, I’m bent at the waist, spun, and shoved back into the car, the doors slammed and the tires squealing as we peel out, going backward at a rapid speed.