Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
But I feel weak and dizzy as I keep bleeding. I bang against the door, shouldering it sideways, and drop low seconds before he returns fire, lighting up where my head should’ve been.
I spot him, crouched in the darkness on the far side of the bed. I shoot back, making him curse and drop down. I stagger forward, unsteady and weak, and when he comes up to take another shot, I manage to kick him in the hands and send the gun clattering from his grip.
Wide, pale green eyes stare up at me. His mouth is gripped in a rage-fueled rictus. Little freckles, bright red hair, a narrow nose.
That’s Ciaran, all right.
I pull the trigger.
The gun clicks, out of bullets.
Fuck.
I lost track, distracted by the blood and the pain.
Ciaran grins at me, then charges.
“Motherfucker,” he growls, tackling me off the bed. I fall back and hit the floor with him on top of me. I elbow him in the back of the skull and the neck, and he grunts as I keep raining blows down on him, struggling to get a better angle, but I’m running out of strength.
“You shouldn’t have come after my wife,” I snarl, launching myself forward, bashing my shoulder into his chest. We sprawl awkwardly onto the floor, wrestling for leverage. I manage to wrap my hands around his throat and start to squeeze.
He gags, eyes bulging. I dig my thumbs in tight, snarling like an animal, the only thought in my head kill kill kill, the beast in me taking control despite my agony.
I want to end him so badly. I’ve never needed a death more than this one.
Until he punches me right in the gunshot wound.
I feel the rib crack. I gasp in shock and release his throat as agony lances into me.
He rolls to the side, coughing violently, and spits blood onto the floor.
My brain’s not working. My body won’t respond. I know I need to move, attack, attack, keep pressing, keep going, but I have no breath in my lungs.
I’m losing too much blood.
Ciaran shoves himself to his knees with a grunt and draws a knife from his belt. Blood stains his teeth as he grins at me.
“Fucking Armenian dog,” he snaps and shuffles closer, his eyes bloodshot and ugly, his neck swollen and bruised. “I’m going to gut you.”
I try to scamper back, but I can barely move. He thrusts awkwardly, trying to drive the knife down into my chest, and I barely manage to get my arms up in time. The blade stabs into my forearm, agony jarring down into my elbows as the blade scrapes bone. I scream, despite myself, and knee him as hard as I can in the crotch twice. He grunts and I twist, bashing my elbow into his mouth.
The blade rips from my arm. I bite down to keep from screaming. He twists, raising it up, and there’s nothing I can do. No speed, no strength, nothing left in me. It’s all leaking out onto the floor.
Dasha. Fuck. Dasha. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
A gunshot cracks. Ciaran’s head snaps back as his brains forcibly exit the back of his skull. “Fuuuggghhh,” he grunts and topples sideways.
Alexan rushes into the room, kicks the knife again, and puts two more bullets into Ciaran before turning to me.
“Ah, shit,” he says, kneeling down. “How bad?”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly. His face is wreathed in darkness. Or maybe that’s my vision tunneling. “Tell my wife I said I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Tell her yourself.” Alexan rips his shirt off and tears it into strips. “Hold on. I’ve got you.” He binds my wounds and growls with effort as he lifts me up onto his shoulder.
Agony flares through my body, and I see Dasha’s face shining, angelic and perfect. I finally lose consciousness as he jostles me down the steps.
Chapter 21
Dasha
The doctor snaps a rubber glove off his hand and wipes his forehead with a towel. “He’s lucky, honestly. Your husband’s a shockingly resilient man.”
Terror wars in my gut. I can barely stand still as I watch the doctor put away his tools. I’ve been waiting in Tigran’s living area while he got put back together in the bedroom, and staying out here has been like spending an eternity in hell.
“He’s going to be okay?”
“Eventually.” The doctor sighs and sits back in a chair. “He’s got a cracked rib and a nasty stab wound on his forearm. That took a solid twenty stitches to put back together. He lost a fair amount of blood, but with rest and liquids, he’ll be fine. The bullet went in on his right side, traveled along his ribs, and exited the back. Honestly, a little bit to the left and it would’ve punctured a lung.”
“But he’s going to be okay?” I repeat, feeling sick to my stomach. I’ve already thrown up twice today, and I don’t understand why. Nothing was wrong this morning, and I still puked until the nausea just suddenly disappeared.