Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I squeeze my eyes shut as bile burns the back of my throat.
“I know you better than he does. He’s not like us.” His voice drops to a dangerous register. I want to scream at him, but I’m gagged and incapable. “He’s playing at being protective. Pretending he didn’t use you to build status when that’s exactly what he did.”
What?
“I see you, Ember. The real you. And you know I love you, even if you’ve disappointed me.”
Tears burn my blindfold. I fight a sob that threatens to break free as I twist my hands and try to find a weak spot.
Does Rodion know I’m gone?
Is he tracking me?
Shawn’s words press on me like the cold, steel edge of a blade to my neck. “You can fight me, but I know the truth. I’m the one who deserves you. Not him.”
My breathing hitches.
No.
My body might tremble, but my heart steadies.
I think back to Rodion’s smirk, the way he’d lift my chin when I got riled up. He let me fight him. He let me push back, gave me agency and free will. He knows how much that matters to me.
Maybe that’s why I love him. I love him.
Here, in the back of Shawn’s car, I see so clearly now it makes my heart ache.
I trust him.
Maybe my book boyfriends offer safety in danger, a place where I can explore but stay in control. The fantasy was never about submission but about trust.
I’m not going to lose him.
I want him to protect me. I want that fierce, sometimes irrational, unapologetic dedication to keeping me safe. Owning me.
I want all of it.
Shawn won’t win. I’ll be sure of it. He won’t.
An engine roars behind us, growing louder.
Oh god, oh please, please be Rodion.
I can still see the lethal flicker of his eyes as he promises brutal retribution to anyone who tries to hurt me.
I’d tie him to a chair and make him watch me ruin you, slow and raw, before I cut out his eyes…
Rodion doesn’t bluff. He gives me all of who he is, the brutal and the beautiful, every ounce of morally gray that I crave in my books right here, in all his Bratva glory, tats and weapons, and the fierce, undying protection of a man who loves me.
You don’t want a gentleman, little queen.
I don’t now, and I never did.
“He’s too late,” Shawn growls in the driver seat. “He can’t have you.”
I twist my wrists harder, feeling my skin burn under the ropes.
Come on. Come on…
The car swerves violently as Shawn tries to lose whoever’s trailing us. I stifle a whimper, completely unable to stop myself from crashing headfirst into the door. Pain radiates along my skull with these stupid restraints holding me tight.
Gunfire explodes behind us. Shawn screams and curses, the car tilting dangerously to the right.
Shawn seems to be fighting for control, but whoever it is, is gaining on us. Something bumps the back of the car.
Has he caught us?
I can imagine exactly what he’s going through right now because I know him. Rodion wants to catch us and punish Shawn, but he doesn’t want to hurt me.
The way Shawn is driving, he might get his wish sooner than later. I’m straining against my wrists when I feel something hit my palm. Is it—I trace it with my fingers and realize it’s the tail end of the restraints he sloppily tied.
I work at the knot and feel a shift of movement. I can do this.
Rodion slipped a knife into a sheath on my thigh. If I can get to it—
I have to keep my head in the game, have to stay on task here. He won’t notice if I undo my restraints. I shift the fabric of my dress, cursing the layers, when I feel the cold, hard metal of the knife at my thigh.
I swallow hard. Yes. Yes.
Who the fuck am I?
Maybe I am cut out for mafia life.
I’m the wife of a hero.
Slowly, carefully, I move the knife out. It scrapes against my thigh as I pull it out and palm it. Shawn’s swerving and cursing. He hits something hard, and I stifle a scream when I prick my own damn leg with the blade.
He never would suspect I had my own weapon.
With trembling fingers, I slide the knife into my palm and shave at the restraints. I can feel it yielding even as I can’t see. Finally, my wrists swing free. I grab the blindfold at the back of my head and yank it off.
Shawn’s face is a mask of fury as another gunshot rings out. I contemplate stabbing him, actually tearing into someone’s flesh with a weapon, and the thought makes me want to vomit. But I have to get away. Does it make sense to hurt him while he’s driving though? My thoughts go crazy, and I can’t reel them in, no matter how hard I try.