Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
My skin shudders, every nerve alight with fear as he comes around to my feet. I want to pull away, to kick him, to fight, but my body is useless. The only muscle that moves is my overworked heart.
His eyes roam over me, dark and hungry, and I know what’s coming before he grips my ankles. His fingers dig into my skin as he tugs me toward him with a sharp jerk that clacks my teeth.
The movement sends my arm sliding off the table, and it falls limply onto Wolf’s lap. The sight of my hand resting on the sleeve of his coat lodges a soundless scream in my unmoving throat.
The IV line connected to my hand pulls slightly, the fluid bag and portable pump on the table beside my hip. Seeing that clear liquid dripping steadily into my veins fills me with cold, helpless rage.
He’s drugged me, drugged me so I can’t fight, can’t resist, can’t do anything but lie here and endure whatever sick, twisted plans he has for me.
“I need you again,” he murmurs, his voice sickeningly soft, like a lover’s whisper.
There’s no love in what he does next.
Untying the sash on the robe, he spreads my legs, his hands rough and greedy.
I want to vomit. I want to die. I want to be anywhere but here.
He grunts as he enters me, using my body the way Denver did one year ago. Only this time, my suffering won’t save Wolf.
It won’t save Monty, Leo, or Kody.
Tears slip down my temples and into my hair.
The horror of each thrust is too much. I feel myself slipping, my mind fraying at the edges. I want to end this nightmare, but I can’t even will myself to stop breathing. The drug keeps me alive, keeps me paralyzed, prolonging the torture.
Amid the despicable assault, I feel something.
It’s faint, invisible, but it’s there. Something warm against my hand, where it rests on Wolf’s sleeve.
My heart stutters, wild hope kicking through my veins. I must be imagining it, some cruel trick of the mind.
But no. I feel it again. A pulse of heat, a flicker of life.
My eyes dart to Wolf, my vision smeared with tears. He looks dead, his face ashen, his lips pale, and his chest as still as a frozen lake.
Then I feel it again. A twitch. A spasm. A tiny movement under my hand, so small it could be nothing.
But it’s not nothing. It’s hope. It’s life. It’s warm, living flesh.
His arm shifts so subtly beneath my fingers, adjusting just enough to let me feel his hand, the microscopic movements, and the blood pumping under his skin.
Oh, my God.
He’s not dead.
He’s alive. He’s fucking alive.
And he’s trying to hold my hand.
The realization crashes over me, so powerful it overwhelms me. Relief, joy, disbelief—it all hits at once. If my throat worked, I would choke on the intensity of it.
But what if I’m wrong? What if it’s just my mind, twisted by grief and fear, playing tricks on me?
I feel it again, and this time, there’s no doubt. He’s moving. He’s alive.
The tears that fall now are different, still silent, but no longer just despair. There’s something else in them. Hope. Desperate, fragile hope, but hope nonetheless.
Rhett finishes with a satisfied sigh, his breath hot and rancid against my chest.
He pulls my robe closed as if that can erase what he’s done.
Stepping back, he straightens his clothes and checks his phone. “They’re almost here.”
His gaze goes distant, like he’s already thinking ahead to the next atrocity he’s going to commit. Then he strides out of the kitchen, his footsteps retreating toward the front room.
As soon as he’s gone, the adrenaline hits me like a lightning bolt, searing through the fog of drugs and anguish.
Blood thrashes in my ears, and my heart hammers so fast I can hardly think.
Wolf is alive.
He’s alive.
He’s right here, with me, and we might have a chance. A slim one, but it’s something. I can’t lose him again. I can’t lose any of them.
I focus on his face, willing him to open his eyes, to give me some sign that he’s with me.
Is he unconscious? Drugged with a sedative, not a paralytic? I scan his body for any sign of an IV line or fluid bag, but I can’t see anything. It might be under his coat.
Is he fighting it, just like I’m fighting the chemicals in my veins?
I pour every ounce of energy I have left into my hand, willing it to move, to press against his skin. It’s agonizingly slow, my muscles straining against the drugs that hold them captive, but I keep pushing. I must. I must reach him.
Finally, after an eternity, I feel it. A twitch in my fingers. Just the tiniest movement, but it’s enough.
I press harder, trying to feel over his hand, searching for anything that might help.