Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 49669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 248(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 248(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
A cold, ugly truth settled over me. It was something my uncle King had even tried to warn me about it.
Life wasn’t a romance novel. Bad things happened, and when they did, there wasn’t always someone there to stop it.
I’d gotten lucky twice.
There wouldn’t be a third. I knew that in my gut.
Which left only one thing to do…
CHAPTER ONE
RUSH
FOUR YEARS LATER
“Here.”
I actually let out a little grunt when King shoved a huge and really fucking heavy box into my arms. On the side of the box was the word books written out in black marker.
“What the fuck?” I began and then saw King lift another box, which he unceremoniously dropped on top of the one I was already holding. “Dude,” I said as my muscles began to feel the strain. “I thought we were going for a beer.”
“We are,” my boss responded even as he got yet another box of books out of the back of his truck. Thankfully, he held on to that one himself and used one arm to lift the tailgate. “Just a little side trip,” he added. The man seemed uncharacteristically annoyed but not angry.
I’d seen King angry.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Fortunately, I’d never been on his bad side, and in our line of work, anger pretty much came with the territory. But saving kids from sex trafficking rings meant you had to have a certain kind of cool anger.
Controlled anger.
And a strong gut.
I’d already had the first by the time I’d enlisted in the army, and it hadn’t taken long to develop the second. Having to watch the heads of men and even women who may or may not be carrying a bomb under their clothing explode from a hail of bullets taught a man how to not lose the contents of his stomach every five minutes.
I stayed silent as I followed King up the steps of a small Cape Cod–style house in the suburbs north of Seattle. Having only recently set down roots in the city myself, I had yet to learn what was what when it came to the Emerald City, but I was liking everything I saw. The lush greenery, epic mountain views, sapphire waters of Puget Sound, and even the somewhat seemingly endless rain made it a little easier to leave the past behind.
Despite the boxes, I managed to take in a few things about the house. For one, it sat on a nice sizeable corner lot and had a view of the sound as well as the towering mountains of the Olympic Peninsula. Even though it seemed to be in a good neighborhood that sported clean streets, neatly maintained yards, and kids riding their bikes down the block or shooting hoops in their driveways, the house I was getting glimpses of was significantly lacking in the TLC department. The yard was overgrown, as were the flower beds. The white trim was in sad need of a new coat of paint while the siding was screaming for a good power washing. My fingers practically itched to get to work on the poor little neglected house. I found myself annoyed at the owner for letting the place go to hell.
I tamped the emotion down and focused on making it up the single porch step that led to the front door. Even though there was a doorbell, King slammed his fist against the door several times. I managed to rest my boxes on the porch’s railing. King’s irritation had me on alert. No way was this thing about just dropping off some boxes to whoever lived here.
“King, what’s the plan?” I asked.
“Tough love, that’s the plan,” King said solemnly as he knocked again, though more softly this time.
I didn’t hear any approaching footsteps from the other side of the door, but after several beats, someone called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s King. Open up.” King responded. His voice was firm but not harsh.
It should have only taken a second to open the door, but as one lock after another was worked open, it took closer to a minute. Whoever was on the other side of that door clearly had some safety concerns.
I settled my ass against the rail, even as I used one hand to keep the boxes in place. I had a full view of the doorway, so I recognized him instantly. Long before he timidly stepped into the doorway and peeked his head out, not to look at his uncle but to scan the street and our surroundings.
Christopher.
The young man I’d saved from what would have been a brutal assault.
My stomach flipped as I took in his features. Instead of filling out like I’d assumed he would when I’d met the skinny teenager, the now twenty-two-year-old looked even thinner.
And haggard.
So fucking haggard.
Like he’d been in a war zone.
Dark smudges stained the skin under his almost sunken-looking eyes. His clothes were loose and too big for him. Or more likely, they’d fit him at some point when he’d been at a healthy weight.