Deliver (Deliver #1) Read Online Pam Godwin

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, BDSM, Contemporary, Crime, Dark, Erotic, New Adult, Romance, Virgin Tags Authors: Series: Deliver Series by Pam Godwin
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Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
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She straightened and rubbed her breastbone, unable to soothe the ache beneath it. “I’m so sorry.” A whisper, too low to pass through the earphones.

Then she closed the lid.

Chapter 6

Opaque fabric pressed against Josh’s eyes. The clip on his nose forced his breaths through his mouth. Were there air holes? There must’ve been, otherwise he’d be gulping lungfuls of nothingness. His throat whistled. His mouth parched. Maybe he was suffocating.

Were his captors standing right outside the box? He couldn’t hear a damned thing beyond the covers on his ears and the thump of his heart.

The unforgiving wood dug into his shoulders and hips. The thousand-pound chains pinned his hands and feet. The too-close walls caved in around him, firing the nerve endings along his skin in concentrated chaos. It was the kind of tactile assault he imagined could only be experienced within the deafening suffocation of a coffin.

Fear boiled in his stomach and hit his throat with searing acid. Great, he still had the sense of taste, which meant he could savor his puke as he choked on it. He squirmed, tilting his head to the side in case his stomach emptied.

This had to be a depraved prank. They wouldn’t leave him chained like this for long. The girl in the next room didn’t have visible wounds on her fragile frame. There weren’t any instruments of cruelty hanging on the walls. Hell, the gun wasn’t even loaded.

He should’ve grabbed the blonde and threatened to break her neck. Why hadn’t he kicked the gun from Van’s hand as soon as the man walked in? His chest tightened. He should’ve left Liv on the road to tow her own effing car.

His pulse elevated, and his body burned and itched. Mom and Dad would be looking for him. How many calls had he missed? His heavy breaths congealed the air around him. She’d done something to his phone.

He bucked against the box, yanking and twisting at the restraints. His stupid freaking impulse to help a stranger had put his parents in danger. He’d left them unprotected and abandoned them with a farm they couldn’t manage alone.

He was idiot. His cheeks burned, and his body fevered with sweat and chills. He tried to punch his legs. The shackles held. So frigging stupid. He kicked again, and pain jolted through his ankles.

Could they hear him struggling? He bit down on his lip, swallowing hard. Had his hostility sent them out to hurt his parents?

A roar clawed from his throat, thundering in his head. How could he have let this happen? Why hadn’t he sent his own text to Mom? Why hadn’t he noticed these people watching him? He should’ve investigated the problem with her car himself. He could’ve prevented this.

His muscles clenched against another bout of trembling. Dad would retrace the route from the stadium to home. He’d find nothing. Likely not even the stalled Kia. She was too well-prepared, luring him with a story, sabotaging his phone while he sat beside her, and coercing him with Mom’s routine and her stolen .22. How long had they been watching?

Why him? Oh God, what had he done to earn their attention?

Helplessness ricocheted over his limbs, thrashing against the chains. Mom was probably pacing in the kitchen, wearing down the linoleum, overworking her already fragile heart.

A sob erupted in his chest, taking him by surprise as it escaped with his gasps. Please, dear God. He closed his eyes, trapping wells of moisture. Please take care of Mom and Dad.

Prayer saturated his thoughts. He stammered through his favorite hymns, filling his heart with the inspirational, joyful words. He desperately needed the power of God to overcome this and to ensure he rose whole and confident and alive.

The walls of the box crept impossibly closer. He thrashed, uselessly. He widened his eyes beneath the mask, trying frantically to see, and met a shroud of black. So cramped, dark… His lungs panted. He needed to focus, to keep his head.

He tried to recall the meditation techniques he’d learned at his retreat. Sucking air through a dry throat, he pictured light filtering through the box’s wood planks, spreading a glow over him, chasing away the shadows. The walls around him expanded outward. The coffin doubled in size. Oxygen flowed in. His pulse slowed. He swiped his tongue over cracked lips. Bless the depth of his imagination.

Time stretched. Was it minutes? Or was it hours? They should’ve released him by now. What were they doing out there? Sharpening knives? Laughing about what a sucker he was? Or were they planning to move the box out back and bury it with him inside?

No, not death. She’d said he would be sold in ten weeks. He would have to be alive for that to happen. He latched onto the hope of survival, even as the implication of his body being auctioned for money brought its own horrors.



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