Page 151 of Ready For His Rule

It was her.

Screaming in pain as Sol yanked her like a rag doll, dragging her into the darkness, toward the water.

Screaming in hope, as Franzen’s bellow was layered by others. Tait? Kellan? Who?

Screaming in shock, as orange bursts flared in the night. Then pops from phantom guns—aimed at them.

Returning pow-pow-pows from Sol’s gun, spraying bullets toward all the soldier silhouettes—

Toward the distinct form with the hulking shoulders, tapered torso, and beautifully carved legs—

“No! Nooooo!”

Then screaming in slow motion, the sound unstopping in her throat, as she stumbled from the man with the suddenly slack grip—and the dead eyes straddling a flawless crimson head shot.

Then pleading, choking, and trying to breathe past her sobs, while lurching toward the fallen man in front of her.

Then…

No screaming.

No sobbing.

No breathing.

Her throat incapable. Her senses stopped. Her heart shattering.

As she dropped to her knees beside Franz, fisting his shirt. Ripping it as she desperately shook him. Scoring the beautiful bronze pectorals beneath, longing to tear in deeper and breathe her own air into the eerily still cavity underneath.

“John. John. Damn you. Damn you.”

Scraping her hands up to his shoulders, over his parted but still lips.

“Wake up. Wake up! John Keoni Franzen, don’t you dare—don’t you dare—”

Rolling her fingers higher, over the crimson-drenched planes of his beloved face. His strong blade of a nose. His prominent, proud cheeks. His right eye, closed so terrifyingly tight.

And the bleeding gash where his left eye had once been.

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