Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“She’s not your girl,” Scott snaps, sounding like a petulant child. “I’ve marked her. She’ll never fully belong to you.”
“He’s lying,” Joslyn screams again, and I spend a brief second of my attention to see Saint covering her with his big coat. He kneels beside her, then takes one of her hands to examine the wounds around her wrist, which are caked with dried blood.
Scott sneers when I glare. He’s still under the delusion he is going to be turned over to the police.
Making a decision, I lower my gun. I put a hand to the middle of Scott’s chest, then shove him roughly backward. He can’t hold his balance, wind-milling his arms in vain before falling to the ground. I holster my gun. “Get up. You’ve got one chance to come out of this alive. I’m going to fight you fairly.”
Scott tosses his head back, hands planted onto the forest floor. “I can’t take you in a fight, Kynan. You’re former British Special Forces. You clearly work out. Sadly, I don’t. I put all of my energy into exercising my brain, which makes me infinitely smarter than you. Smart enough to know I can’t ever hope to win in a fight, so if you don’t mind… I’m just going to wait for the police to come.”
I reach to my side and grab my hunting knife, slowly pulling it out of the sheath. It’s eight inches of lethal steel. “I’m not calling the police. And I said this would be a fair fight.”
He watches with wide eyes as I flip the knife into the air, catching it by the blade before immediately slinging it at him. It buries into the forest floor right between his legs. “Pick it up. You have a weapon. I don’t. Now let’s go.”
Scott slowly rises, tugging hard at the knife to dislodge it from the ground. While he does that, I remove my shoulder and knife holsters, tossing them toward Cruce so they are safely out of the way. He bends and picks them up, taking several paces backward to give us some space. It’s a silent acknowledgment he is standing down, letting me finish this the way I want to.
Saint is clearly concerned about what I’m going to do. I don’t know this man, but when he finally nods his approval to me, I know he’s got my back as well.
Turning to face Carlisle, I hold my arms wide, motioning with my fingers for him to come at me.
He glances from me to the knife in his hand and then back to me. Pivoting slightly, he scans Cruce and then Saint, perhaps wondering if they’re going to step in and stop this. They both just stare daggers back, making their allegiance clear.
Joslyn merely stares blank faced, and I have no clue what she wants me to do.
Not that it matters. This is going to be finished to my satisfaction. He hurt the woman I love, and now he has to pay the ultimate price. Prison is too good for him.
Carlisle finally turns his attention to the knife before raising his gaze to me. He tilts his head, giving me a small smile. “Let’s do this.”
He comes charging at me, screaming like a banshee. I keep my body loose, rolling on the balls of my feet as he approaches. The knife is raised high, and I keep my eyes pinned on it. He makes a slashing motion at my chest as he reaches me, and I nimbly step to the side. As he barrels past, I give him a backhanded fist to the neck. He goes flying into a tree, then hits it so hard the knife is dislodged from his hand before he crumples to the ground.
“Please tell me that’s not all you got,” I mutter as I advance on him.
Grabbing him by the back of his blue sweatshirt, I haul him to his feet. He’s rattled, but completely conscious and alert. I shove him toward where the knife fell, and he falls to his knees.
“Pick it up,” I order.
Carlisle crawls to the knife, grabs it, then struggles to his feet. He’s completely winded, but he also knows he has to fight me.
Once again, he lunges, swinging wildly. I easily grab the wrist holding the knife, then drive my elbow into his forearm, feeling immense satisfaction when the bones audibly crack. Carlisle screams in pain, the knife tumbling from his hand.
Once again, I shove him to the ground. Curling up, he starts moaning. “You broke my fucking arm.”
Ignoring him, I walk over to the knife. I pick it up, flip it so the blade is in my hand, and twist toward him. Striding casually to the motherfucker, I hand the knife to him. He reluctantly takes it in his nondominant hand, staring at it.
“Get up.”