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)
I so wish I’d done more Kegel exercises.
It’s like trying to ride a bucking bronco as Culver howls, grappling at my legs and trying to force them open with brute strength.
Crossing my ankles, I squeeze like I’m smashing a pumpkin, crushing my thighs against his neck, trying like mad to push down on his windpipe in just the right place.
Come. On.
Definitely awkward.
But I’m glad he’s facing away from me and not getting a mouthful of—you know.
I’d never live this down.
But he’s stumbling around now, straining for air, snarling and flinging me around everywhere.
I feel like a fish writhing on a hook.
My body flops and stretches painfully, but I just keep squeezing my thighs, doing my best to hold on until he’s out cold, gritting my teeth until they hurt.
I’ve only seen this in the movies. Does it even work in real life?
When it happens, I’m not expecting it to be so sudden.
Culver lets out this weird garbled wet noise and staggers away from me like a dog trying to break its leash, stretching me almost horizontal.
The pressure on my knees threatens to break their death grip.
Then Ulysses bucks Lucas off him, sending Lucas stumbling into Culver.
His weight throws Culver back toward me.
My calves crush tighter, and I pray to every muscle I’ve developed on my daily runs that I can just knock him out before it’s too late.
But then Ulysses surges to his feet and charges at Lucas.
Shrieking like mad, I act without thinking.
I use my viselike grip on Culver to push his unsteady bulk, swinging my hips with just enough force to toss him at Ulysses.
Over two hundred pounds of gangly, oxygen-deprived hillbilly goes flying into his boss.
Their skulls knock together like coconuts, heads rocking back on their necks like Pez dispensers.
Fighting for survival isn’t supposed to turn into slapstick comedy.
I’d be laughing like crazy if it wasn’t our lives on the line.
Lucas pauses for a breathless moment, glancing at me.
“Thanks, New York,” he rattles out.
“Behind you!” I cry.
He swings around just in time to duck as a very pissed off, very bewildered Ulysses swings a wild roundhouse kick at him.
From his crouch, Lucas plows right into Ulysses’ midsection and steamrolls him across the room.
It’s marvelous to watch, this freight train of a man barreling along while Ulysses bangs his fists helplessly on Lucas’ head and shoulders.
I’ve still got Culver flopping around against me like a stranded fish, but he’s weaker now, making these harsh gagging sounds.
And if I twist just right—there!
I think I’m about to dislocate my freaking shin, but I’ve got my knee against his trachea.
The adrenaline rush gives me the strength I need as I push—only to almost lose my grip at another loud crash from across the room.
I jerk my head up, spitting a tuft of my own hair out of my mouth.
Just in time to see Lucas slam Ulysses into a worktable.
“You filthy, unworthy cur—” Ulysses grinds out.
It’s all he gets.
Because Lucas grabs him by his messy hair and smashes his head down on the metal so hard there’s a bright burst of blood from his temple.
Ulysses’ eyes roll back, blinking in disbelief.
Then he slumps down, unconscious, his body pouring limply onto the floor.
Lucas straightens, fierce and strong in his black tactical gear, legs braced, staring down at Ulysses with raw vengeance in his eyes, his chest heaving.
God, he’s too gorgeous for life.
The kind of dark knight you only see in fairy tales.
My hero.
My protector.
My broken beast.
My everything, even when I didn’t know I needed anything like him.
He’s also got two good working hands and I don’t.
“A little help here?” I call out, even as Culver straightens up and makes another clumsy lunge away from me.
Ow. My hips are going to be aching for a week.
“Huh?” Lucas’ head jerks up, his dazed eyes clearing.
He stares for a second before he strides across the room.
After Ulysses, it’s just cleanup.
One more powerful backhand puts Culver out like a light.
His head slips down like a jack-in-the-box slinking back into its hole.
Gasping, I let my legs drop, just dangling as exhaustion crashes over me.
Holy hell... thank God.”
“Sorry it took so long, Lilah,” Lucas says sheepishly. He reaches for me, his hands skimming up my arms toward the chains. Even as sore and exhausted and frazzled as I am with the rush of fear and adrenaline, it feels so undeniably good to have him touch me again. “Let me get you down before you—”
The sudden sound of a shotgun jacking cuts him off mid-sentence.
Multiple shotguns jacking.
Oh, God.
We both freeze before Lucas pulls me against him, gathering me protectively against his body as he positions himself between me and a new threat we don’t have a prayer against.
About a dozen hard, grimy bearded men in overalls surround us, pouring in through the broken wall of the shed and the open door.