Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
He groans and lifts his bloody thumb to my tit, swiping it across my skin and leaving a trail in its wake. “So fucking gorgeous,” he mutters as I try to catch my breath, slowly coming down from my high.
He reaches over to his bedside drawer and pulls it open, taking out an array of bandages and gauze. He cleans me up, and I keep my stare on him, watching every little thing he does. “You branded me,” I mutter, feeling as though the words need to be spoken out loud despite us both knowing damn well what just went down.
“Mmhmm,” he says, lifting his gaze. “So when you fuck Dalton and Sawyer, they’ll know you’re mine.”
Well, shit.
He finishes cleaning me up, and just when I think he’s done with me, he nods toward the door. “Come on,” he says, going to get up. “Let me make you breakfast. Then as soon as you’re fed, I’ll be laying you out on the fucking dining table and eating that sweet pussy.”
Yes, sir. Who the hell would say no to that?
Getting out of bed, we trail out to the kitchen, cutting back through the massive penthouse. As we walk in silence, I’m struck with a realization. This man I just rode is a callous killer, a cold-hearted murderer. They all are, and yet here I am, their promise to protect me from their world the only reason keeping me from making a break for it.
By why?
What do I mean to them? Why put their life at risk for me?
Why even care?
Zade is about to become the leader of the whole organization, and yet he’s been lumbered with babysitting. It doesn’t make sense. There’s something more to this, something they’re not telling me. And you can bet your sweet ass I’m going to find out.
Chapter 25
OAKLEY
Standing in the kitchen of Danny’s Bar, I glance at the clock. There’s twenty minutes until we close, and with both Heather and Hannah working the near-empty bar, they didn’t need me hanging around. Yet here I stand, hovering in the kitchen, pretending as though I’m helping out while staring at the back door.
Zade, Dalton, and Sawyer chill out by the bar, and I have no doubt they’re watching my every move. But out here in the kitchen, slipping through the back door and taking off wouldn’t be hard.
Since the minute I questioned their intentions, I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. I need to know what they’re keeping from me, need to know how a nobody like me ended up on the radar of a multi-billion-dollar organization. I’m going to figure it out if it’s the last thing I do.
Zade appears a little more chilled out today. Apparently it has something to do with finding the man responsible for giving out my name, but as usual, not one of them was forthcoming with the details.
The boys got back to the penthouse a little after Easton and I finished our breakfast, and with me wearing nothing but one of Easton’s shirts, all three of their gazes dropped to my thighs. Sawyer seemed curious while Dalton looked as though his friend just stole his toy on the playground. Zade though, he looked irritated. He gave Easton a scathing glare, then walked away. Apparently he’d had a long night.
Glancing at the clock, I realize I’ve wasted another five minutes staring at the door when I should have been bolting through it. This is a stupid idea. Almost as bad as hiding in the back of Zade’s Escalade, but this time I have a plan. I mean, it’s not a great one, probably a little reckless and underprepared, but it’s a plan nonetheless, and I fully intend to see it through.
Letting out a shaky breath, I grab the trash bag to give me a reasonable excuse to be out back in case one of them comes looking for me, and I shoot out the back door.
My heart races. They’re really going to kick my ass for this.
Dumping the trash bag, I make a break for it.
My feet pound against the pavement, racing through the streets and down back alleys, heading toward the college campus. I see it up ahead and search the windshields of every passing car for that magic little word—
Uber.
Most days, they’re everywhere, but nearing 10 p.m. on a Wednesday night . . . I might be shit outta luck.
People come and go, getting home from their nights out while others are only just leaving campus after spending the night buried deep in textbooks. A black car pulls up, and a couple barrels out of the backseat, and the second I spy the Uber sticker in the back window, I make my move.
I wave him down, probably looking like a moron, and watch as the driver puts his window down, probably not used to this level of desperation. “You okay, Miss?” the driver questions, glancing around behind me, probably checking to make sure I’m not being followed.