Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
How did I not know this was happening?
I’ve been too busy working on the fucking car that I didn’t bother checking the notifications that were coming through. I just assumed it was either Chloe or Tilly moving through the apartment as usual.
“How long ago?”
As if knowing that I’m watching, Zeph turns and stares directly up at the camera that looks over both the kitchen and living room. “Maybe ten. Fifteen minutes at the most,” he says. “And Dad. There’s blood in her bedroom. Not a lot, but enough to know that she’s hurt.”
My stomach knots, and I feel as though I’m going to throw up as I flip through the footage, hoping like fuck that my girl is okay. The moment I see a figure dressed in all black and dragging something through the apartment, I press pause.
“FUCK!”
“What?”
“It’s Jordan,” I snap through gritted teeth, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth could crumble under the pressure. I’m going to fucking kill him. Tilly is passed out, blood trickling from a wound at her temple, and I see red.
He drags her limp body through the apartment, pulling her over shattered glass and ramming her legs and head against fallen furniture.
“That fucking—I’m coming with you,” Zeph snaps. “This ends now.”
“The fuck you are,” I say, my heart racing faster than it ever has before as I go further back, watching the moment Tilly arrived at her apartment. She’s looking around with the most heartbroken expression as Jordan watches her from her open bedroom door. She starts walking toward it, and he slips behind it, waiting for her like the sick fucking predator that he is.
Fucking hell. I should have done something about this. I should have said something, taught the motherfucker a lesson after he accosted her on the street, or again after he tried to put his hands on her at that damn party, but I figured he got the point after Zeph knocked him out.
“Excuse me? This is Tilly we’re talking about, not some random chick. I’m not just going to sit back and hope like fuck that you can find her. I have to—”
“The only thing you have to do is sit your ass down next to Chloe and wait for the cops to show up. Let me handle this, son,” I demand, moving through my home and into my private office, more than ready to bring up every fucking detail on this kid and exploit it.
“No, I—”
“Don’t fucking try me, Zephyr. I’m not in the mood,” I roar as my computer comes to life. “If that little prick was holding a knife to her throat, do you really think you could look him in the eye, a man you have been best friends with for over a fucking decade, and end his life? Could you pull the fucking trigger? Could you snap his neck?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Exactly. I’m not risking Tilly’s life on an I don’t know. And on top of that, I’m not about to let you throw your whole fucking life away. You’re not going to suffer the same fate I did. You’re better than that.”
“And you’re not?” he throws back at me.
“Not even a little bit,” I tell him, letting him hear the darkness in my tone that I’ve gone out of my way to hide all of these years, but now that Tilly’s life is in danger, I suddenly don’t give a shit. All that matters is getting her back in my arms. “I would slit his throat without even a hint of hesitation. I would dance in his fucking blood, Zephyr. What aren’t you understanding? Just like I did for you all those years ago, there’s not a goddamn thing I wouldn’t do for her, even if it means rotting behind bars for the rest of my miserable fucking life.”
“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll stay here.”
“Good. Now tell me everything there is to know about this little bastard.”
26
TILLY
Blood trickles down the side of my face as consciousness returns in waves, and as agony pounds through my skull, everything rushes back. The camping trip. My apartment. Jordan.
Fuck.
My eyes spring open into a dark room, and I find myself hanging by chains, my tiptoes barely scraping the ground. My arms ache, and I distantly wonder how long I’ve been hanging here, but none of that matters. All that matters is getting the fuck out of here.
I blink into the darkness, trying to make out shapes, and as my eyes adjust, I realize that I’m in some kind of storm cellar. Old metal shelving lines the walls, stacked with canned food that looks as though it went out of date in the seventies. There are two sets of bunk beds on either side of the small room, and a set of stairs that leads up to what I can only assume is someone’s backyard.