Total pages in book: 238
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
I backed out of the room and closed the door, scanning the landing again. The shadows of the leaves on the trees outside danced across the railing that loomed over the foyer, and the water falling outside surrounded the house like a metronome—steady and constant.
Inhaling, the scent of old books and burning wood hit my nose, and I clutched the knife tightly at my side as I descended the staircase.
I wanted to go everywhere. See every room, inspect every closet, and get the lay of the land, but I had no idea what time it was, or which rooms would be occupied at this hour.
Stepping off the staircase, I walked through the foyer, passing a dark and empty drawing room, as well as a dining room on my right, and a ballroom and library to my left.
Candles flickered on antique silver candelabras that stood as tall as me around the foyer, and I stopped at one, staring at it for a moment.
The place had electricity. Why the ambience?
I picked up the matchbox on the nearby table and stole a couple of matches out of it, sticking them into my pocket.
Lightly stepping through the house, I sneaked right, toward the kitchen, but a cry echoed down the hall from my left.
I stopped and looked, the hair on my arms rising as I heard a grunt.
“Just leave it, Will!” someone growled.
I narrowed my eyes, inching toward the voice even though I should just run.
I passed a sitting room and an office, and kept walking down the hall, seeing movement on my left.
I turned and looked into a home gym, much like the wrestling room back in my old high school. A wide open-area mat surrounded by equipment—treadmills, ellipticals, free weights…
Taylor Dinescu did push-ups on the mat, his eyes darting up and locking with mine.
His sweaty brown hair stuck to his scalp as his naked chest and back glistened. My stomach dipped at the look in his eyes as his push-ups got faster and faster, and he continued to stare at me like I was something on his plate.
My heart beat in my throat, and I turned away, hearing a grunt from farther down the hall.
“Goddammit!” And then there was a crash.
I jumped, fisting the handle of the knife. What the hell? Following the noise, I stopped near a cracked door and peered inside.
“Just leave it!” Micah growled, falling into a dark wooden secretary, the books on the shelves tumbling out behind him.
Tears wet his cheeks, but fire blazed in his eyes as he pushed Will away.
I inched closer.
Blood was dripping out of Micah’s nose. He was dressed in black pants while Will wore jeans, both shirtless, their forms lit only by the glow of a small lamp.
Will grabbed the back of Micah’s neck and brought him in, forehead to forehead as Micah shook.
My heart ached a little, despite itself. What was wrong with him?
Will stared at him as their deep breaths fell in sync, harder and louder like they were getting ready for something, and then Will took hold of Micah’s arm, grabbed the side of his neck with his other hand, and shoved hard, a low, hollow pop sounding as Micah cried out.
“Ah!”
I winced.
“Motherfucker!” he shouted as his shoulder was snapped back into its socket, choking on the pain and shoving the secretary over until it crashed onto the floor.
Jesus. How the hell did that happen?
Sweat coated Micah’s black hair, which hung over his eyes, ears, and down his neck, and he leaned into the wall, gasping for breath as the color drained from his face.
I wasn’t sure how old he was, but right now, he looked twelve and helpless.
Will handed him a bowl of something with an eating utensil.
But Micah pushed it away. “I’m gonna be sick.”
And at that moment, he grabbed the copper waste basket and leaned over, spilling whatever was in his stomach.
I looked away for a moment, but then I heard more growls and grunts coming from farther down the hall and looked toward it, but couldn’t see anything.
Micah wiped off his mouth and set the tin down as Will set the bowl on the little table.
“Eat it when you’re ready,” he told him.
“I can’t take your food.”
Will picked up an elastic bandage and started unraveling it, probably meaning to wrap up Micah’s arm.
But Micah pushed that away, too. “Don’t,” he said. “I don’t want him to see.”
Who? And see what? That he was hurt?
Just then, Micah looked up and met my gaze, finally seeing me hiding behind the door.
I straightened as Will followed his gaze, noticing me, too.
Walking over, he kicked the door, slamming it in my face, and I blinked, startling.
Prick.
Ruckus sounded from somewhere down the hall, and then a growl, and I looked toward the kitchen and back again, gauging my choices as my knee bobbed.