The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 512

Inside the damp, dimly lit cabin.

Grant relentlessly ground his shoe into Garrison's head, pressing down on his barely rising chest, his vulnerable stomach.

Blood spilled from Garrison's lips in rhythmic pulses. His eyes were tightly shut, making it impossible to tell if he was even conscious.

"No... no..."

Sloane had run out of tears. Her chest felt as if it were being seared by a branding iron, but there was nothing she could do but desperately pray for a miracle.

Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed through the room!

Before anyone could react, a bloom of blood exploded on Grant's calf.

He let out a grunt, his leg giving out instantly. Collapsing onto the metal floor, blood rapidly soaked through his pant leg, forming a dark red puddle beneath him.

At the same time, two more shots rang out in rapid succession.

Blood sprayed from the chests of the two bodyguards. The bullets pierced straight through from their backs, as precise as a surgeon's scalpel.

The expressions on their faces remained frozen in shock as their bodies went entirely slack. They fell straight backward, slamming heavily onto the metal deck.

Blood poured from their wounds, trailing along the grooves in the floor. The metallic stench in the room doubled instantly.

Sloane snapped her head up.

Backlit by the light leaking from the hallway, two figures stood in the doorway. A short-haired woman held a pistol, a wisp of smoke curling from the barrel.

She held her stance for another two seconds, only lowering her arm once she was certain the guards were neutralized.

It was Cassandra.

Sloane's wrists had been rubbed completely raw, the metal digging deep into her mangled skin. Even the slightest touch sent fresh blood oozing out.

With a click, the left cuff sprang open. Another click, and the right followed. As Cassandra crouched down to undo the chains on her ankles, Sloane practically lunged to her feet.

"Garrison!"

Sloane stumbled forward—one step, two steps, three—before throwing herself onto the metal floor beside him. Her knees hit the deck with a loud thud, but she didn't feel the pain.

"Garrison, are you okay?!"

Garrison lay slumped in a pool of blood. Wyatt had dropped to one knee behind him, hooking his arms under Garrison's armpits to keep him upright.

His head hung heavily, his chin resting against his chest. Sweat and blood matted his hair, hiding his tightly shut eyes.

His white shirt was entirely destroyed. A massive patch of dark red coated his chest, and his stomach was torn open in several places where the club had struck, the skin underneath a gruesome, bruised black.