Total pages in book: 205
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
“Are you going to use that?” Wolfson’s voice slides over me like velvet, soft and textured, but his eyes remain on his task. “Can I borrow it?”
Without looking, he reaches for the ax.
Shock holds me paralyzed, my fingers locked so tightly around the handle they’re numb.
Too numb to hold it as he rips it from my grip.
I jerk back, protecting my core, but he doesn’t swing. Instead, he turns away and uses the blade to pry open the last crate.
He roots through containers and packages, hellbent on finding something. It’s like I’m not even here.
His arm lifts to rake long fingers through his mop of black curls, revealing a tattoo on his hand. The ink has lost its luster, leaving a bleeding smudge of gray. But I can make out the shape of what was once a detailed, artfully drawn eyeball that stretches from his knuckles to his wrist.
How did he get it? Does he leave Hoss to visit tattoo parlors? Or do they have the equipment and skill set to do it here?
“Yes!” He tosses the ax in my direction.
As I scramble for it, he gathers packages into his arms.
My mind spins, trying to make sense of his behavior. How does my presence not affect him? There’s no curiosity. No surprise. No apparent interest in any way.
Something is horribly off. What am I not understanding? What the hell am I missing?
Whatever it is trickles ice through my veins.
“What do you want?” I hold the ax against my chest, prepared to use it.
“Smokes and ink.” He holds up several boxes and smiles.
That smile. Christ, he’s so excessively, unreasonably stunning it renders me immobile.
And sets off warning bells.
He’s insane. Absolutely mad. Or maybe he has brain damage.
Drugs are another possibility.
That’s it. He must be high.
But as his sharp blue eyes connect with mine, I see crystal clarity and deep, dangerous intelligence. His stare doesn’t waver, unflinching with disapproval and boredom. He knows exactly why I’m here, what lies in my future, and he feels…nothing.
My heart stops and doesn’t restart until he breaks eye contact and hops out of the plane.
The robe hangs open, revealing black silk boxers, knee-high, fox-fur moccasins, and another tattoo.
BORN TO DIE scrawls across his chest in faded Gothic font.
With his torso bare and the wind cutting through the thin material, he should be freezing. But he doesn’t show it. It’s as though he feels nothing at all.
“Thank you, Daddy!” He holds the boxes in the air, smiling brightly, seemingly sarcastic with childish wonder, and throws himself out of view.
I crane my neck to see through the window as he wraps his arms around Denver, tackling him in a hug and making him laugh.
“You shouldn’t have, kitten.” Wolfson plants his lips on Denver’s cheek and dances back to the cabin.
Dances. Like a full-body roll of hips and shoulders, sideways shuffling and gyrating up the stairs and into the house.
What the ever-loving fuck?
He cares more about cigarettes than the woman with an ax in the plane.
Because I’m not the first one.
How many have come before me? What happened to them? Are they buried beneath the cabin? Or did they die out there?
My eyes roam the surrounding tundra, the distant hills, and the cliff overlooking the river rapids.
I need that snowmobile.
Has anyone else tried to escape that way? Locating the key would be a miracle, but I have to try.
My fingers clench around the ax handle. It’s not like I can hack my way out of here. I would never be able to kill or maim all four of them. Attempting it would be a death sentence.
That’s not why I slip the ax inside my coat. I’ll need it to hunt for food and defend myself against wolves and bears.
Right?
I have no idea. How would I? I haven’t trained for this. I’ve never fucking done this before.
Footsteps close in, and everything inside me tenses. I sit stiffly, motionless, staring straight ahead as three figures move at the edge of my vision.
No one speaks as they unload the crates, but I feel their eyes on me. I sense the danger pressing in, my blood trembling with adrenaline and trepidation.
I won’t give them a reason to hurt me. But I can’t give them an opportunity, either, and the longer I stay, the more the opportunities will arise.
At last, the plane is unloaded, and their footfalls fade into the cabin. All but one.
Denver opens my door. “Let’s go.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Take me home.”
“You have two choices. You can walk in with your dignity. Or I can carry you like a child.”
If he carries me, he’ll feel the stolen supplies stashed in my coat.
This isn’t the time to run.
“Move.” I twist toward him, sliding my legs out the door.
He steps back, a smirk shaping his chiseled, psycho lips.
The instant my boots hit the ground, the boom of my heartbeat rushes to my ears. With each step toward the cabin, the sensation grows louder, faster, pulling me into a dizzying fit of terror.