Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
He touches her as if it’s his right. I’ll remember that, too.
He takes a knife from his belt and undoes her rope, then the one holding us together. I hold the end tight, so he doesn’t feel the slack and thinks we’re still bound. Then he opens a closet door and shoves her and the tray inside. “Eat. You have one minute.” He slams the door behind her. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the tattered end of the rope we unfastened. I grab the end and quickly tuck it into my palm. It’s thin and supple and will do the job I need well.
“Vivia,” I yell to the closet.
He kicks me. “Shut up.”
“Best weapon,” I yell back at her, earning me a fist punch from the asshole. I hope she remembers. Untied hands are going to come in handy if she’s smart about it.
I hope she’s got some of the Montavio fight in her. We’ll need it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Vivia
I’m shoved in a closet with a counter ticking on how long I have to shove this food in my mouth. I wouldn’t eat food they gave me if I were starving to death on a remote island. Who knows what kind of drugs or whatever they put in it.
I try to will my body to stop shaking, but I’m not having much luck. I hate closets. Hate them. When I was little, my mother would lock me in a closet as punishment, sometimes for hours. I’d cry until I vomited and since then have always hated small, enclosed spaces. I will myself not to remember that, not to let the fear of the past sweep me under. I can’t. I won’t.
My hands are free, the transponder’s safely back in my bra, and I have twenty seconds before that door opens again. I quickly assess the closet. Nothing. Not a hanger or shoe in sight. I look down at the tray. A bottle of water, a plastic plate with gray-colored meat on it, next to a sad mound of… potatoes? Gravy? Congealed pasta? Blech.
So the food and tray are my only weapons. There was a knife, but he has it now. The same one he used to cut my ties.
“Ten seconds,” he shouts, his voice louder. He’s outside this door. He’s expecting me to shovel down this sad excuse for a meal in record time.
I’ll use the food and tray to take him off balance, then either take the knife off him or off the floor, wherever he’s put it. I never used a knife on anyone in my life.
I’m not sure what I’d even do with it except blindly stab at him. I wish he’d fed Dario first. Something tells me he would know exactly what to do with a knife. Probably wouldn’t even need it.
“I’m ready. This food’s bullshit,” I say through the closet door, baiting him.
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, princess.”
The door swings open. I stand with the tray in my hand.
“You didn’t eat a damn thing,” he mutters.
“Oh, I ate all of it,” I say, and when he looks up at me in confusion, I make my move. I toss the water I’ve hidden tightly in my grip into his eyes. He curses and blinks, flinching as his hands come to his face. I don’t see his knife. Where’s his damn knife? He gasps and takes an involuntary step backward. I shove the tray at his neck, and when he doubles over, I kick him between the legs. He sinks to the floor. My whole body quakes, expecting immediate and violent retaliation when I hear Dario.
“Push him over to me,” Dario says in a hoarse whisper, probably not wanting to make any more noise than necessary.
I gather up my strength and shove him toward Dario. Dario moves just as the guy gets back up.
Seconds ago, he looked restrained and captive. Now, he springs into action. Dario gets to his feet and swivels his leg out, kicking the guy so hard he snaps bone. The guy falls to his knees but not before he slashes at Dario with his knife, which conveniently reappears when he needs it. He probably hid it somehow.
Dario expertly dodges the knife slash and bites, gripping the man’s hand with his teeth. It’s too brutal, too animalistic. I can’t watch. Blood drips to the floor and the man gives an inhuman scream.
The guy pivots beneath Dario and claws at anything he can find. His fingers latch onto one of Dario’s sleeves, and he yanks, trying to get away. The fabric tears. Dario pulls away, but it’s too late. Dario’s rose tattoo’s obvious, and our captor doesn’t miss it.
He freezes, suddenly terrified.
“Rossi,” he mutters. “No fucking way. I didn’t know—I didn’t mean—”
Dario quickly uses the knife to cut his rope. We have to move because it’s seconds before someone will come and find out what’s going on. I reach for the tray, lift it, and smack it on the guy’s head with all my might. It shatters like glass and falls to the floor around him. It’s enough time for Dario to undo his bonds, grab the rope, and in seconds, he’s got the guy pinned beneath him, the rope around his neck.