What. In. The actual. Fuck?
“Slither through us,” another male to his left says. “Go through the hall and make a right. Keys to the red Ford truck are in the visor.”
I can’t leave him.
Them.
I begin to shake my head, but the original man I sought after says, “Now.”
My feet don’t move at his direct order. They’re like moving cemented shoes.
“Miss, we don’t have a lot of time,” the other urges. “Please. We’re under direct orders from Mr. Wildes?—”
“Youcan’tlet anything happen to him,” I cut in tersely through a whisper. “Do you understand? He’s your king. I don’t care if you all don’t like it?—”
“We’ll do our best?—”
“No,” I snarl through clenched teeth. “It’s youronlyoption. Neither him nor Lorenzo Black are harmed.”
You are asking them to Ironman a bunch of fucking rocket launchers, Astor. What do you want them to do?
Perform a miracle pretty much.
“Backup is on its way,” someone else says. “Five minutes.”
“Make it quicker.”
“They can’t time warp,” the other leers. “We need to buy time.”
“I count six guys with launchers,” another states from somewhere to my left. “We got one shot, literally, to not miss.”
“Leave Zeke out because he shoots like shit.”
Are they seriously arguing with each other right now?
“Miss Astor,” the man in front of me prompts. “You have three minutes to get out of here.”
“Hallway,” the other repeats. “Make a right.”
Ellie. Mae. Levi.
Fuck this up, and I won’t be around.
With all the strength I have, I follow their instructions, but every inch away from Pretty Boy feels like forever.
It feels like I’ll never see him again.
It feels like I’m signing his death warrant.
I’m leaving him to fend for himself, with men who don’t necessarily serve him and expect them to listen to me.
To protect him.
From his psycho brother and my armless ex.
You can’t leave him. He’s never going to walk out of here if you do.
Fishing my phone out of my jeans, I make it to the hallway I was directed to and make the right.
