Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4 by Kennedy L. Mitchell

Author:Kennedy L. Mitchell [Mitchell, Kennedy L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-06-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Randi

A flurry of movement ensues all around the room, but I stay frozen in place on the floor, gaping at the man I murdered. A light and silky cover drapes over my still exposed lap before gravity vanishes and I'm hoisted into the air. Every muscle seems at the verge of snapping, the tension locking them in place making them stiff as boards. I stay rigid in the bridal-style hold, unable to relax into the strong arms carrying me.

Soft, comforting whispers are muttered into my disheveled hair as we make our way the few feet to the bathroom, the room that was supposed to be my sanctuary all along. The double doors slam closed, and then we're moving again. I barely take notice when I’m lowered and sat on the edge of the large sunken tub. The arm around my waist flexes, holding me in place as a bare chest leans over me. The scent of jasmine and honey wafts through the room as the pounding of water fills the tub behind me.

With two hands on my hips, he crouches down, meeting my gaze. Concern swirls behind Trey’s light brown eyes as he scans my face.

“You're all right, Mess.” One hand slides up my bare arm, fingertips skimming along my neck before a palm cradles my cheek. His usual warmth seeps into my skin, his scent filling my lungs, slowly loosening the hold shock has on my body. “I've got you. No one will hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

“I shot him,” I whisper, terrified to admit those words.

What does this even mean? Will I go on trial? Would they put the president in jail for murder? It was in self-defense. They were attacking me and Trey in my suite….

Oh hell. I’m 100 percent fucked. I'm in another damn country, not in the US. I have zero rights here. I could be put in a Saudi prison. Forced into slave labor to pay off my crimes.

Each scenario is worse than the previous until my heart nearly races out of my chest. My fingers wrap around Trey’s muscular shoulders and tighten, digging my chipped and jagged nails into his perfect skin.

“I don't want to be a part of a chain gang,” I squeak, my eyes searching his.

Fine laugh lines crinkle around the corners of his eyes as they alight with humor. His lips fight the smirk desperate to make an appearance.

“I could be imprisoned, you ass. This isn't funny.” My voice’s high pitch gives away my increasing panic.

“Mess, baby,” he says on a snicker. A fucking snicker. I’m about to wear orange for ten to twelve years and he fucking snickers. “You didn't shoot anyone.”

Oh hell. Poor guy. He must have hit his head.

“Trouble, baby, that man out there is dead because of me.” I scan his forehead as I weave my fingers through his thick, sweaty hair, searching for the laceration or bump. “Did that guy hit you in the head? I think you need a doctor. You’re not remembering things.

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