Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
The front door opened, and the blast of cold air carried all kinds of blood scent on it.
“Jesus Christ,” Shuli muttered as he raced back to the foyer.
Skidding to a halt, he did a stem-to-stern on the huge male who filled the jambs. The heir to the throne was looking like someone had used him for target practice. With a ball-peen hammer. That arrogant face had a bash on one side that was already swelling up, and blood was dripping off the guy’s ear. The long, straight black hair was tangled, and there were fresh scrapes and street salt on the front of the black jacket and the leathers.
“You should have come in through the escape tunnel,” Shuli groused as he yanked L.W. inside and closed the door. “The Brotherhood has us staked out and they’ve just seen you like this.”
“Like I give a fuck.”
As the fighter went into the parlor to head for his bedroom wing, the limping was not a surprise. The fact that there wasn’t more conversation was also not a shocker—
Wha-BAM!
As L.W. tripped on one of the machine guns that had been tripod’d by the white silk sofa, he got tangled in his own shitkickers, and threw his hands out to stop himself from falling. Rhamp and Shuli both jumped forward to help at the same time, but… everything went to chaos.
Then again, try playing hot potato with something that had the impulse control of an alligator and weighed three hundred pounds.
The harder they tried to catch L.W., the more he fought them off and pinwheeled around, slamming into furniture and tripping over other munitions—
“Not the Mondrian!” Shuli shouted as he went offensive lineman.
He might as well have put himself in front of a train. The brutal contact knocked all the breath out of him, but at least he saved the painting by playing eight ball in the corner pocket. And as the impact of their bodies sent L.W. careening away at an all-wrong angle, Shuli told himself that the other male was going to catch his balance before he—
The fighter ass-over-teakettled like the sofa he ran into was something he never saw coming, and as he back-flatted on the glass coffee table, there was a loud crash and a brilliant shimmer as the top shattered and the legs bowed out.
In the aftermath, they were all breathing hard, and the darkness didn’t help with orientation, so Shuli went over and turned on the lights. After two blinks, he was good to go and Rhamp was clearly the same. L.W., however, sat up slowly—
And put both arms out in front of him to pat the air.
As Shuli watched the male turn his head from side to side, those pale green eyes didn’t focus, the pupils so tiny that they barely registered.
Rhamp went over silently and knelt down. When he waved a hand right in front of L.W.’s face and the male didn’t flinch, you could watch the guy do the math.
“Can you see me?” Rhamp asked in a low voice.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
L.W. pushed himself up to his feet, stepped on one of the grenades, and rolled his ankle even with the shitkicker. This time, he caught himself, though. Barely.
And then he just stood there. Bleeding, breathing, being angry.
Lost, even though he clearly refused to admit it.
Shuli went across and took the guy’s arm. When L.W. tried to pull free, he shut that shit down quick. “I’m just going to get you to the bedroom.”
“I don’t need—”
“So you want to trip over all the guns in this room? Would that be fun for you? I’m thinking no. So fuck you.”
Shuli got moving, and even though he expected more arguments, L.W. just followed, down the hall off the parlor, a rabid dog unexpectedly coming to a heel. When they got to the end, Shuli opened the door and willed on the dimmer for the ceiling light. The bedroom was as neat and tidy as a military closet, L.W.’s gear and sets of leathers laid out over the furniture, an all-war decor.
Piloting over the carpet, Shuli dumped the guy on the messy bed, and as he did, he had the thought that there had been a time when he wouldn’t have wanted to stain the Frette sheets and duvet.
Waaaaaaaaaay past worrying about linens at this point.
Putting his hands on his hips, he stared at the male as Rhamp came up behind him. With another quick shot of will, he cranked the intensity of the light fixture up until he had to strain not to blink while his eyes adjusted.
L.W. just stared right at the ceiling, his pupils unchanging, his lids wide open.
“What happened out there,” Rhamp asked in a quiet voice. Like he was running through all kinds of scenarios, none of which were good.
“It’s fine,” L.W. replied hoarsely.
Rhamp shook his head. “Unless you start talking right now, I’m out. If you expect me to keep putting my life on the line for you, you’re going to be honest with me right now.”