Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
"Hemlock?" I ask before I can stop myself.
My raging heart skips more than one beat when the silver-haired man turns his attention to me.
He's the stranger I talked to in the store the other day, and he doesn't look happy to see me standing there.
"I'm just going to go," I say when he stands and starts walking closer to me.
"I'm afraid I can't let that happen, Zara."
Chapter 23
Hemlock
I feel like I got dropped out of an airplane with no parachute, struck by a semi-truck before I could hit the ground, then ran over by a steady stream of traffic for an hour before someone was able to scrape my remains up. Literally, everything on my body hurts, but it's the sandpaper in my eyes that annoys me the most.
It takes a handful of blinks before I'm able to see right.
Weakness stresses me the fuck out, and I know I'm weak before I even try to move on the bed. I consider that I'm in my own room, but fuck, all the rooms in this house, probably on this side of the mountain, look the same.
We're in one of the heaviest populated short-term rental places in the Smoky Mountains, and that was intentional. If people are coming and going all the time, they'll never notice the steady stream of different people in and out of this house and the people who never seem to leave either. It's the perfect cover, but it's also disorienting at times. You never know who's going to be next door. I don't doubt there will be a time that one of these rings we're trying to bust moves in to operate their business out of one of these cabins.
"Fuck," I growl, hating that I feel weak for even a moment.
"Take it easy, fucker. You'll bust your stitches."
I bare my teeth at the sound of Jericho's voice, but it takes me a little too long for my liking for my eyes to search the room and find him standing with his eyes focused outside of the window he's standing in front of.
My heartbeat is off, the pulse of it in my side rather than in my head where it normally is. I hate the change, even though I know I'm lucky to be alive.
"How bad is it?"
"Lost a lot of blood, but it didn't hit anything major. You're one lucky bastard."
I do my best not to scream in pain when I try and sit up. Pain radiates from every muscle in my body, making me very aware I've been in the same position on this bed for a long time. I pull at the IV in my arm, knowing they've been keeping me sedated to heal. All of this comes from the experience of being hurt more than once.
"How long have I been out?"
"Just under twenty-four hours."
I whip my head to the other side of the room, noticing for the first time, Ace sitting in my desk chair.
"We don't think you were stabbed by anyone connected to Tommy Wilkinson."
"It was a man in a green shirt," I say, my breathing shallow in an attempt to not irritate my wound. "I'd never seen him before, but he stared a hole through me less than an hour before he stuck me."
"Not much to go on," Ace says, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his tone.
"What the fuck do you expect from me?" I growl.
Ace doesn't answer, and I can't tell, in my pain medicine-induced haze, whether or not he thinks it's a stupid question or if he figures I should already know the answer.
"Is my cover blown? I'm not in a hospital, so I'm presuming that Zara didn't call the cops." I wince again as I try to swing my feet over the side of the bed. "Did she make it home okay?"
"She's fine," Jericho snaps from the other side of the room.
My head spins when I whip it in his direction. Everything is slower right now, not right in my head.
"I think it was just some asshole that was in a bad mood," I mutter, but, honestly, what are the chances of that?
What kind of psycho just stabs someone because they're having a bad day?
But then again, I've done my fair share of slicing and dicing without immediate provocation, so maybe I'm not the one who should be asking those types of questions.
"I need to piss," I mutter as I stand from the bed, my head spinning.
Thankfully, neither of the fuckers in the room rush to help me. I couldn't handle being fucking coddled right now.
I realize I'm in less than fighting form as I hobble to the fucking bathroom. I piss before leaning over the sink and stare at my reflection. I'm pale, but I've had much worse. Being down for a day isn't so bad. The three bullets I took to my back seven years ago put me out of commission for the better part of a month.