Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 66503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Right as he comes down, I jump back and hold the shard in front of me like a knife.
“Stay back!” I yell.
“Oh, you gonna play the big girl now?” he mutters.
His voice makes me tremble on my feet.
I recognize it.
He’s one of Lex’s guards.
“Come at me, then,” he growls, throwing punch after punch.
I tiptoe sideways, trying to avoid his fist, but I’m not trained, and when I slip up, he punches me right in the gut.
Oof.
My lungs feel like they got run over by a truck, and I buck and heave.
“You thought you could run from us?” The guard laughs. “Bad idea.”
Suddenly, my father rises from the bed and smacks the guard on the head with a thick book he’d found lying by the table.
The man is slapped sideways headfirst into the wooden wardrobe next to the bed, allowing me to step away.
My father gets off the bed and punches the guy, but the guard grabs his fist in midair and pushes him back. They struggle for power, and my father is definitely on the losing end.
My hand that holds the shard begins to quake.
I don’t have much time.
Make a choice.
Just do it.
Do it now.
I don’t think as I ram the shard into the man’s back.
He roars out in pain, scratching at his skin to try to get it out.
“You fucking bitch!”
He turns around and punches me.
Dizzy, I fall to the floor, unable to keep my balance, and a sharp pain makes me groan.
One of the shards has lodged itself into my abdomen.
When I touch it and look at my hands, there’s blood.
Oh God.
My father throws himself at the guard, hanging around his neck and biting his ear.
The man growls in pain and chucks my father forward over his head, slamming him into the floor so hard I can hear the air leave his body.
My father doesn’t move anymore.
Then the guard focuses his attention on me.
My pupils dilate, and I immediately begin to crawl away from him.
Too late.
“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.” His shrill voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
I head for the knife he dropped, but before I can reach it, he grabs my hair and drags me up. It hurts so bad my eyes begin to sting with tears.
“But I’ll definitely enjoy being the one to make you both suffer,” he growls.
I’ve already suffered enough.
In a blind rage, I grasp the shard and pull it out of my own flesh.
And when he turns me around, I jab it straight into his eye.
One. Two. Three steps and he falls, wailing in agony, straight into the corner of the nightstand. His head splits open, and blood pours out. The one leftover eye slowly grows vacant. And then he breathes his last breath.
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’ll come back alive like a zombie and eat us all. But none of that happens.
I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to tell myself it’s fine.
But it’s not.
I killed a man.
I actually killed a human being.
But the worst part is … I don’t feel any different.
I should. Taking a life should not be this easy. Nor should I be happy.
But I am. I’m so goddamn happy I survived another day.
Is it wrong to feel this way?
Is this … is this what Beast experienced whenever he killed?
I swallow down the lump in my throat.
When I’m finally convinced the guard will not get up again, I breathe a sigh of relief and push myself up from the floor. I lean up, but the wound in my stomach plays up, and I hiss in pain.
Someone else does too.
My eyes immediately turn toward the sound, and my heart stops racing the second I spot my father moaning in the corner. For a second, I thought another guard would come to get us.
“Fuck me …” he groans in pain.
I get up slowly, grabbing the bed to help myself stand. The wound isn’t deep, but it definitely needs stitches.
“Check if he’s dead,” my father says between ragged breaths.
Frowning, I reply, “You do it.” And I head into the bathroom to find the first-aid kit. There’s a tiny needle and thread inside. Not perfect, but it’ll have to do.
I sit on the counter and lift my shirt to look at myself in the mirror. The wound looks gnarly and oozes blood. I grab the tiny alcohol wipes and clean the wound, hissing with pain. Then I lean in with the needle.
C’mon, Aurora. You can do this.
I push the pointy end into my skin and bite down on my lip as I push it through again and again, sealing the wound slowly.
God, the things I’ve had to do since I got captured.
Old Aurora wouldn’t ever have believed it.
“What are you doing in there?” my father asks.
“Taking care of my wound,” I reply when I’m finished.