Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Only, he was a day late and a dollar short, and he ran off—leaving the body behind—when Delilah pulled up to the house too soon.
I’ve got to get in there.
I’ve got to put a stop to this and save my Lilah.
It’s two against one and I like those odds.
Even if I’m hopped up on enough meds that I could get run over by a tank and not feel it, and I’m not firing on all cylinders, I have to try.
There’s no time to wait for backup.
I snag Mallory’s phone anyway, punching in a quick message to the crew, hit Send, start to take stock of the interior, anything I can use for a tactical advantage.
Think, man.
Think.
But those shitty words keep coming, floating over me in waves of terrible memories.
“You’re just like your father,” Delilah spits. “You even like the same kind of girls.”
Ulysses lifts his snotty blond brows. “And what kind of girl do you think my father killed?”
“Celeste Graves, for one.” She glowers at him so fiercely I half expect her to go right for his throat with her teeth. “Your dad killed her, and now you’re taking up his tradition.”
Ulysses goes still.
His face turns into an eerie, wide-eyed mask, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks.
My heart leaps up my throat as he leans into her, halting the knife just under the tip of her nose.
“Shut up, cunt. I’ll not have someone else take credit for my work,” he breathes in an eerily empty voice. “Especially not my first.”
His first?
His fucking first?
I reel back like I’m shot, my entire body pulsing with a heart attack of shock.
My sister was his first murder and he’s outright admitting it.
Before I can even try to process that, Delilah echoes the rabbit-thoughts circling in my brain. She stares at him, the color draining from her face.
“Your f-first? How? You would’ve been like twelve—”
“Don’t you know?” He leans back from her with that crazed look still growing in his eyes. “The age for my rite of passage. She was the first strawberry I ever tasted, and my beautiful Celeste was delicious.”
“Jesus. Fuck.” Delilah makes a sickly angry sound. “What is wrong with you? Why do you...”
“Delilah, Delilah,” he says, swaying the knife under her chin, “don’t you know that being rich and respected is terribly boring? A man must create his own thrills to escape so much responsibility. Luckily, I found mine early—and I wouldn’t part with them for anything.”
That’s it.
He’s a fucking dead man walking.
I never hear how Delilah responds through the raw indignation exploding up my spine.
Blood roars in my ears like a waterfall.
Ulysses Arrendell killed my sister.
Because he was bored.
“Now.” Ulysses growls again, raising the knife and aiming it at Delilah’s sternum. “Enough idle talk. I’ve worked up a terrible thirst keeping you entertained.”
Any thought of caution, of control, of common sense disappears, burned to ash in the inferno of my rage, my grief, my need to end this before the monster-fuck in front of me kills again.
Before he kills her.
I only know one thing—no cleaver can hurt more than the truth tonight.
Before I waste another second thinking about what I’m doing, I hurl myself through the flimsy aluminum wall of the shed and fling myself into Ulysses Arrendell’s teeth.
25
In The Red (Delilah)
So, this is how I die.
I’m still turning over the risk factors in trying to headbutt Ulysses Arrendell without impaling my throat on that knife and whether or not I can bounce hard enough to knock the chains around my wrists free, unlooping them from the hook.
I’m definitely not expecting the entire wall of the shed to start caving in.
It collapses like a car crash in a movie, but instead of a car it’s—
“Lucas?!” I gasp.
The man becomes a giant blur before I can even blink.
He tackles Ulysses like he’s going for a touchdown, hurling the creep flat on his back.
I stare, hope and shock and confusion thrashing around inside me in this tangled mess.
Ulysses hits the ground hard, grunting and swearing under Lucas’ weight.
Holy hell.
I’ve never seen Lucas so furious.
In this moment, he’s not human, but this creature of thorns and naked outrage.
His eyes flash like green lightning as his fist plows into Ulysses’ wrist and sends the cleaver flying across the dirty floor.
I have one blurry second of sick realization—oh God, Celeste Graves’ bones are probably mulched in the dirt—before I realize Culver’s moving.
He tries to climb over Lucas as they tumble around at my feet, tearing at each other like rabid wolverines.
Ulysses is sharp and quick and agile. His thinner frame helps him dodge Lucas as his fist crashes down again and again like a sledgehammer.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” I hiss.
My arms may be bound, but my legs aren’t.
Hoisting myself up by the waist, I clench my inner core and lift my legs, snapping them around Culver’s neck, dragging him backward.