Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“You won’t do your niece and nephew any good if you pass out from the pain,” the man said, his voice a little sharper than it had been before. But his touch was gentle as he began maneuvering me and working some strips of fabric around my arm and body. I couldn’t respond because the pain was so bad it was all I could do to stay on my feet. What probably took only a couple of minutes felt like hours and as much as I hated to admit it, the only thing that kept me from begging the man to stop was the praise he fed me as he worked.
You’re doing good, Micah.
So brave.
So strong.
I’ve got you, sweetheart.
I was ashamed that it was that last one that I let run on a loop in my head until the man declared he was finished.
“Can you walk?”
The question jolted me from the haze his warmth had provided. I managed a nod. “What about Ricky?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” was all the man said in response.
I swallowed hard and looked in Ricky’s direction. He was still lying on top of the remnants of the dresser.
“Is he—”
“No,” the man interjected as he began using his foot to clear the debris in my path. He almost sounded disappointed. I was instantly reminded of how several of the bigger men in the crowd watching the fight between him and my brother fifteen years earlier had needed to pull him off Brady and drag him away. The memory had me pulling away from the man when he reached for my good arm.
I instantly missed the support of his body, but I focused on putting one foot in front of another instead. Rather than heading for the door, I turned toward the single mattress lying on the floor opposite the bunk bed.
“Micah,” the man called, but when his gentle fingers closed around my upper arm, I yanked away from him.
And immediately tripped over what had once been a spindly vinyl chair that I sat in each night when I read the kids a bedtime story. The stories had been more for Rory, but Christopher had seemed to like them too, though for much different reasons. Rory had listened to the actual story, but Christopher had found comfort in knowing I was in the room. It was the only way he ever found the peace of sleep.
As my foot caught on one of the metal legs of the chair, I braced myself for the agony I knew would come when I hit the floor.
But there was no floor.
No agony.
Pain, yeah. Lots of that.
But I had the man behind me to thank for catching me by my good arm before my body made contact with the unforgiving wood beneath my feet. He dragged me against his chest, though he was careful to not put any added pressure on my arm. “What the hell are you—?”
“The mattress!” I snapped because I knew why he was irritated with me.
My good eye met his glittering ones. The fierceness in them should have had me quaking in fear but oddly didn’t. I was grateful that I couldn’t really see him all that well because I already knew how insanely beautiful the man was.
All over.
As much as I hated everything about him, I’d still occasionally caught myself “accidentally” finding one of his fights on the internet and getting lost in how his sculpted body moved in the ring.
And how his eyes normally twinkled when he was turning on the charm for the cameras during his post-fight interviews.
They definitely weren’t twinkling now.
He stared at me for a moment and then said, “Stay,” before striding to my mattress and lifting it like it weighed nothing. If I hadn’t been hurting so badly, I would have smiled at his look of irritation when there was nothing to be found beneath the mattress. His hard eyes shifted to me.
“Lift the sheet,” I said as I rested my good hand on my injured arm. Surprisingly, the binding was helping to keep the pain in check. It still hurt like a son of a bitch but as I’d moved, there hadn’t been any of that breath-stealing kind of agony from before.
The man lifted the sheet and paused when he studied the mattress. Seconds later, he reached down to lift the piece of the mattress I’d cut the guts out of, leaving only the top layer to hide the contents. I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until he pulled out my worn green backpack.
The man’s eyes held mine as he returned to my side. I could see the unspoken question there, but I didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, I put out my uninjured hand expectantly. It became this weird, silent standoff between us as he held my gaze and I held his. It felt like a lifetime before he handed me the backpack.