Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
The first thing I notice when we step through the clearing is how there’s no sign of all the busted rubble we left behind, someone has been working double time to erase the events of that night, but as we grow closer to the seating area of our gardens, my eyes are instantly called to the right.
Sai’s soft, fading smile flashes in my mind and my eyes prick with the threat of tears, what I did and why I had far too painful to process right now, and Bastian knows it, his firm grip tightening in support.
I give myself one more second, then lift my head high, clearing my expression of all thoughts.
Movement catches my eye, and my head darts up.
Relief spills into me as I stare up at the balcony, finding my girls standing there, the boys at their backs. They give the subtlest of nods and then they disappear, and I know they have my back—our back—should we need it. We’re definitely going to need it.
My dad. He is holding it in, but he is, without a doubt, boiling with rage, just waiting to be released. My feet hesitate, my body twisting to face his. “Bastian—”
No sooner than his name leaves my lips, I’m bent, tucked and rolled behind him, his left arm cased around me, locking me flush against his back, his right hanging at his side as his chin dips low.
Man after man reveals themselves all around us, creeping from behind every brush and corner, rifles raised, lasers pointed this way, and I don’t have to be standing in front of them to know every single one is trained dead center on his head. The Revenaw team doesn’t shoot to injure. They shoot to eliminate.
The double doors swing open ahead, and my father steps out, adjusting his suit jacket as he does, his face poised as he walks this way.
Bastian’s grip on me tightens, but his hands don’t shake. There isn’t a single tremble or hint of tension running through his body.
My dad stops five feet away, folding his hands together loosely in front of himself as he tips his head slightly, his dark hair slicked back as always, sharp jaw perfectly smooth-shaven.
Slowly, a smile pulls at my dad’s lips, a low laugh following, and my pulse jumps at the mockery he’s making. “So, is this how you expected things to go?”
“Better question. This how you want to play things? ’Cause what you do here can’t be undone, old man.”
“I’m not the one with countless targets pointed at my skull, so yes, I’d say it is.”
“If one of them spook shoots and she gets hit, every fucker on this field dies. Including you.” Bastian pauses a moment. “Last chance, you won’t get another.”
I press my palms at his back in silent support, and his chest rises with a full steady breath, but then Bastian’s arm around my body jerks, and I look over my shoulder to spot the tranq dart deep in his forearm, the liquid within disappearing into his bloodstream.
He whips around, gently tossing me out of the way as he rushes the man at our backs.
He’s shot a second time in the chest, and his body begins to sway, but not before he’s gripped the gun in the man’s hands, torn it from his grasp and smashed it over his head.
He falls to his knees, fighting against the toxins bound to take control, and I dart for him, horror gripping me when I’m wrapped up from behind and lifted off the ground as a handful of men descend on Bastian.
They kick and hit him, punching every inch of his body they can reach. His skin splits, blood streaming from his wounds, his head and body flopping as he’s treated like a rag doll, left completely defenseless.
I struggle and scream, and then I sink my teeth into the arm wrapped around me, shredding through the man’s skin and sending him howling until I’ve been dropped at his feet. My knees smack against the ground, but I jump up quickly, stealing a rifle off the grass, but I don’t point it at the pile of men beating mine.
I turn it on my father, watching as his eyes narrow and then widen when I place my finger on the trigger. “Don’t make me do this.”
His brows dip low, eyes searching, assessing, and I know the moment he sees it.
The moment he realizes I will pull the trigger if I must.
My father’s lips press together firmly, sorrow drawing creases into the corner of his eyes just before they grow resolute, and he gives a small nod, but I realize too late it isn’t in concession to my threat.
It is in acceptance of whatever he has planned and a silent order to the man who is sneaking up behind me, the one who puts me to sleep with my next blink.