Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
He yanked open the front door, and they all filed outside onto the porch. The night air was cooler than usual, and a mist was rolling along the river. “How long do we have before they cross onto the land?” Sometimes Ally’s visions were of something that would happen only minutes later; sometimes it was longer.
Ally pursed her lips. “I can’t be sure, because—”
A loud rumbling sound seemed to vibrate through the air, and then . . . boom, followed by a pained roar. Which meant someone had set off one of Donnie’s traps.
Harley hissed. “They’re here.”
As one, they shifted and ran toward the trespassers.
Stomach knotted, Gwen shifted from foot to foot as she stood in Yvonne’s doorway while the woman quickly dressed. She flexed her grip on her Glock, finding comfort in it. She wanted to pace and curse and fidget with nerves, but she needed to keep cool. It was damn fucking hard.
The house was so deathly quiet that she could hear the explosions, growls, roars, and gunshots—which meant Donnie had clearly joined the fight. Her stomach churned. Knowing Zander was out there, fighting for her, maybe even bleeding for her . . . it was hard to keep calm.
“Yvonne, we gotta go. Now. Come on.”
Yvonne placed a hand on her stomach and followed her out of the room. “I didn’t think the Moores would be stupid enough to do this. The shifters will eat them alive. Literally.”
“Ezra hasn’t come. He sent a bunch of lone shifters.” Fucking coward. Somehow, Gwen kept her shit together as she led Yvonne down the hallway. A smashing of glass from somewhere ahead of them made Gwen grind to a halt. Her pulse skittered. “Someone’s inside. Must have broken through a terrace room.” Shit.
“Go up,” urged Yvonne. The attic had a secure door and, even better, a decent-size fire exit.
Heart pounding, Gwen grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the staircase. But they didn’t make it. One of the bedroom doors swung open, and a heavy weight crashed into Gwen’s side, tackling her. She landed awkwardly, wincing as pain struck her shoulder.
The male rolled her onto her back and straddled her, and it was only then that she realized it was Thad. His big, beefy hand snapped around her wrist and bent it awkwardly, trying to make her drop the Glock. She balled her free hand into a fist and slammed it into the bridge of his nose. There was a nauseating crack, and he bit out a harsh curse as blood dripped from his nose.
Yvonne came up behind him and yanked so hard on his collar that it dug into his throat. Making choking sounds, his hands flew to his collar . . . releasing Gwen. She dug the Glock into his chest, right above his heart, and fired. He paused, eyes widening in shock.
Gwen propelled herself upward, shoving him out of her way, and scrambled to her feet. Bile rose in her throat. She’d never killed anyone before. Shot them, sure, but never killed. Maybe she’d feel bad about it later, when adrenaline and panic weren’t feverishly racing through her system. For now, getting Yvonne to safety was her priority.
“Let’s go.” Her hand hurt like a bitch, thanks to Thad, but she kept a good grip on her Glock as she ran for the staircase.
A door from downstairs crashed open. “That shot came from upstairs,” said a familiar male voice.
A gasp flew out of Yvonne. “Ezra,” she whispered shakily.
Yes, Ezra. Looked like he’d come, after all. He’d probably taken advantage of the moment when Zander and the others had hurried out of the house to face the trespassers.
“We have to keep moving,” Gwen said.
She and Yvonne raced up the stairs to the third floor. They arrived on the landing just as Gerard came skidding out of the room near the smaller staircase that led to the attic, pistol in hand. Raising her Glock, Gwen squeezed the trigger twice, wincing as the flexing of her finger sent pain radiating through her hand and wrist. She’d aimed for his head, but the bullets collided with his arm and shoulder. Dammit. Still, the pistol slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor—that helped.
Hearing footsteps stomping up the stairs behind them, Gwen dragged Yvonne toward the smaller staircase. She dragged too hard. Yvonne stumbled, falling to one knee on the first step.
Something wrapped around Gwen’s ankle, and she looked down to see that Gerrard had crawled toward her. He tugged hard, but she gripped Yvonne’s shoulder to steady herself and pulled the trigger. She’d aimed for his head again, but the bullet hit him in the throat. That would do. “Go, go, go.” They climbed two steps when a series of bullets thudded into the wall and the painting above their heads.
“Don’t move if you want to live!”