Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
This is my chance.
My own slumber that I’d given in to while waiting for him to go to sleep is washed away, and I’m ready to go. Slowly, I unzip the sleeping bag and sit up. My eyes are on his face, looking for any movement, any indication that he heard me. But he keeps sleeping. Letting out a small thankful breath, I climb out of the bag. He’s only a few paces away from me and I can see the knife handle sticking out of the boot on his bent leg.
Tiptoeing, I make my way toward his sleeping form and crouch by his boot. I reach out with my hand, and slowly, very slowly, I slide the knife out. Once I have it, I take a step back, and then, out of nowhere, the hand that was sitting limp on his thigh strikes.
Like a rattlesnake, lying in wait, his fingers coil around my wrist and squeeze so hard that a gasp and a squeal escape me. At my sound of pain, he snaps his eyes up. His dark gaze is alert and his features are sharp, and I realize that he was lying in wait. He probably wasn’t asleep at all; he knew I was coming for him the whole time, and like a wild, dangerous animal, he lured me in.
Like always.
“Not so fast,” he murmurs, his voice hardly sleep-ruffled and just as alert as the rest of him.
God.
What a fucking monster. I was wrong to think the Graysons are anything but evil and criminal. And I feel so foolish for thinking it that I go manic.
I absolutely lose my fucking shit.
I launch myself at him and crash-butt my shoulder into his chest. He’s momentarily shocked at my sudden burst of energy, and I’m able to knock him back, his spine hitting the tree. He curses at the impact as his fingers loosen around my wrist, and I’m up on my feet in a flash with the knife. I’m already spinning on my heels when he wraps those wretched fingers of his around my ankles and takes me down. I scream as I fall to the ground, my elbows and forearms taking the brunt of it all, along with my knees. I think I even have cut skin in places, but I can’t be sure and I don’t even care right now.
Because right now, as my skin smarts and possibly bleeds, I feel him on top of me. His wildly breathing chest pressed to my shuddering back. Starting to feel suffocated, I struggle harder under him. Despite giving it my all, though, he manages to flip me over.
And our eyes lock in the darkness.
His, fiery and angry; and mine, probably just the same except there may be a hint of panic too. For a second, less than a second even, it feels like our chests move in tandem. His swells up when mine swells down, and mine goes up when his goes down. It feels like our breaths, like our eyes, are tangled together. But then I feel his fingers wrapping around my wrist, the one holding the knife, and the moment breaks.
I start thrashing under him, and he bears down on me.
“Let me go,” I bite out with heaving breaths, and then I keep chanting it like a prayer.
Let me go let me go let me go letmego.
“Calm the fuck down,” he tells me, all the while tightening his hold on me like a vise, suffocating me with his muscles and bones. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
I headbutt him at this.
Hard.
Just to show I don’t care what happens to me as long as he gets hurt. I cry out at the impact and see stars, and he curses again, this time loudly, as his hold on me loosens and I twist my hand with the knife free. And then I swing it down, and holy God, holy fucking God, I hit something.
Something like muscles and bones.
And everything stops. My head stops spinning. My vision comes back, and the first thing I see is blood.
Dripping on me.
Granted, it’s only a few drops, but they plop on the center of my heaving chest, warm and thick. Before scattering every which way. Sliding along my collarbone, seeping into the bodice of my dress; sluicing up to the triangle of my throat. I watch for a few seconds, hypnotized, but then gather enough wherewithal to look for where it’s coming from.
Him.
It’s coming from his chest, higher up on it, just under the globe of his left shoulder. Where his knife is lodged, and dear Lord, my fingers are still wrapped around the handle.
Did I do that?
I did that, didn’t I? I stabbed him. I stabbed my husband.
I gasp, finally letting go of the knife, my sweaty fingers grabbing his bicep. “I… You… Are you… Oh God, did I kill you?”