Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I groaned as my headache became endlessly heavy, compounding deeper and deeper until I felt like Atlas trying to hold up the world.
Tucking her against my body, I moved past Matchsticks and left behind the smoking ring where Cleo had lain. Marching to the gates, I found Mo, who was busy coordinating the gathering of oil, gasoline, and diesel. In his hands, he held an assortment of lighters, matches, and a long rope made of knotted sheets that’d been soaked in what I assumed was bourbon thanks to the empty bottles by his feet.
My lips twitched into my first smile since I’d woken in hospital. “Good idea.”
Mo tilted his chin at the compound. “You up for it? They’re not here; everything important has been taken or destroyed. We won’t gain anything by keeping it standing.” Glancing at Cleo, he lowered his voice. “The only person we came across was one of the bitches we stole and gave to the Crusaders. Her throat was cut from ear to ear …” He trailed off.
My eyes widened, looking at the war paint of someone else’s blood covering Buttercup.
That’s how she became so covered.
She’d been made to watch as another woman was viciously murdered in front of her.
My heart lurched.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“The men have explored the place. It’s worthless, Kill. We should—”
“Dagger Rose isn’t worthless.”
In fact, it had great value. But that value would only increase if the compound was destroyed. “Torch it,” I growled. It was time to purge the place where evil resided. Cleo would understand.
“You sure?” Mo moved to stand beside me as we faced the compound that’d been my home for so many years. Instead of happy memories, all I could think about was the day when I’d been so terribly betrayed.
Clutching Cleo harder, I nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.” My voice was cold, merciless. “Burn it to the fucking ground.”
Chapter Seven
Cleo
He hated me.
I didn’t know what I was doing wrong, but he did.
My dad told me that Art was dealing with issues with his father. It hurt, because the moment Dad mentioned it, I knew. I just knew what those issues were. I was so selfish and stupid not to see. How did I miss the bruises on his arms? The puffy lip the other day? His father hurt him. And it was my job to protect him. That was what love was, right? Protecting those you cared for? Well … tomorrow, I was going to tell Rubix to leave Arthur the hell alone. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen
I’m cold.
Why am I so cold?
Before, I’d been too hot—far too hot. But now, all that heat had gone, leaving the sweat on my skin to chill and the warmth in my blood to freeze.
Curling into myself, I snuggled into the hardness surrounding me and tried to make sense of this strange new world.
It was dark.
It was painful.
Slowly, in the tiniest of increments, my body awoke and took stock of what’d happened. I couldn’t open my eyes—I was so tired. My mind seemed disconnected from my limbs and organs, floating freely, but the throbbing pain growing deeper with every heartbeat shackled me to the mortal world.
I flinched as horrible dreams bombarded me. Images of throats erupting and blood waterfalling. Fire consuming and ash raining.
I didn’t want to remember but this time there was no amnesia, no blankness to protect me.
I recalled everything. In vivid, perfect detail. The girl dying at my feet. Rubix touching me. Cobra and Sycamore holding me.
Then … pain.
I didn’t know what’d struck me, but it’d sent me hurtling into darkness.
I squirmed, no longer finding comfort in sleepiness but a sinister syrup housing monsters and nightmares.
Wake up!
The more I forced myself, the more pain exhausted me. The thick throbbing haze was absolute. A sickening roll reminded me all too keenly of the Seahorse ship where Arthur almost sold me.
Something jiggled me, pressing me harder against firm muscles. “Open your eyes.”
The demand sounded familiar—as if it’d been repeated over and over again.
I strained toward it—reaching with eager hands to latch on to the kindness in their tone.
“Buttercup, open your eyes. Please … for me.”
Arthur!
The sinking sensation disappeared.
The anchor snipped free and I soared buoyantly to the surface.
I opened my eyes.
“Oh, thank God.” The jostling sensation came again. “Can you see me?”
I hooked on to his deep baritone, willing my body to fall back under my control. Slowly, shadows and shapes came into play.
And then … there he was.
Tangled jaw-length black hair, strained green eyes, and kissable full lips. High cheekbones made him exquisite, while two-or three-day growth made him human. He was the perfect contraction of fantasy and fate.
The most heartbreaking love glowed in his gaze, undoing me with besotted pain.
“You came,” I croaked.
“You can see me?” His question was an urgent demand.
“Yes.” I swallowed, lubricating my throat. “I can see you.”