Page 94 of Cruel Riches

All of a sudden, he charged forward. His free arm shot out and shoved me, harder than I thought was possible for a mortally wounded man. My head cracked on the floor, cushioned only by the thin mattress.

I gasped and blinked, trying to clear the stars in my vision. Blood rolled down my throat and bile surged upward.

Coughing and spitting, I made it back up to my knees, breathing raggedly through the pain coursing over every inch of my body. That was when I saw Nate’s shoes right in front of me, spattered with droplets of blood from his injury.

With a roar, he kicked me in the guts and sent me flying backward. Then he stumbled to the cell door, slammed the bars shut, and fumbled with the padlock.

“If I die,” he rasped. “You die too.”

With that, he turned away. His slow, lurching footsteps echoed in the tunnel, along with his grunts of agony. After a moment, the sound finally died, leaving me alone in the cold, dark silence.

I sucked down a deep breath. Then I raised my chin and let out a terrible, unearthly howl of sheer feral frustration as the colossal failure of my scheme sank in.

Nate was right before.

I was totally fucked.

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