Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 121389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Their short conversation ran over and over in his mind, until he did the only thing he could—he missed a day of training, which was out of character for him in the extreme, and went back to the spot where he’d met her. Ridiculous to assume it would work when the forest was a sprawling wilderness that went on for miles, but he had to try.
He put his nascent forest tracking skills to use and tried to follow her path, but she’d been too light on her feet, had left no real mark that he could discern. Halting in the center of a small clearing when it became clear he’d never be able to track her, he looked around … and saw mushrooms exactly like the ones she’d had in her basket.
He crouched down, touched his finger to one.
Would Lei come back for more?
Since it was all he had, he settled in to wait, back against the trunk of a large tree and eyes on the myriad greens and browns of the forest. Ivan could be patient. According to his grandmother, he had the gift of quiet.
He’d never told her how he’d developed it, all the hours he’d spent in lonely silence while his mother “rested,” hadn’t even spoken of it to the PsyMed specialist Grandmother had handpicked for him, but he thought she’d guessed. It wasn’t a difficult thing to deduce once you knew his history.
He supposed it was the one good gift his mother had left him.
Nowhere near enough to balance out the far more twisted gift inside his mind, but something at least.
The hours crawled past, and though he had plenty to keep him busy on the PsyNet, he ignored the vast psychic space in favor of watching the forest shift and stir. Waiting for her.
But she didn’t come back that day.
Or the day after.
He had no reason to return for a third day, especially when Jorge warned him that his absenteeism put him in danger of being kicked off the course. Ivan had never not completed what he’d begun. That was who he was: tenacious and relentless to the point of obsession.
Except now he had a different focus.
He went to the clearing … and there she was, stepping out of the forest in an ankle-length dress the color of autumn leaves and sunsets, her hair in a long braid, and a familiar basket on her arm. Small metal leaves hung from her ears, delicate as her skin.
“Oh.” She halted, her eyes widening as she caught sight of him seated by the mushrooms. “Did you hurt yourself again?”
He shook his head. “I came to see you.”
A blink, a hint of color on her cheeks, her feet shifting.
“Let me check your leg,” she said at last, and strode over.
He didn’t resist when she pushed up the leg of his black combat pants with a gentle touch. A frown on her forehead and her braid falling over one shoulder, she examined the healing wound with care.
This close, he could see that her scar was ragged. Most likely not done by a knife. A claw? A piece of broken glass? If it was the result of violence, if another had hurt her with malice, he’d end them. A woman who went around tending to wounded strangers would’ve never done anything to deserve such violence.
Ivan was dead certain on that point.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he told her as he fought not to touch the softness of her hair, the urge an unfamiliar one. “It’s started to itch.” Anyone who’d ever had a cut heal over knew that to be a good sign.
“Excellent.” After rolling down the leg of his pants, she tilted her head in a way that felt oddly familiar but that he couldn’t pin down. “You really came to see me?” A softness to her voice.
“Yes.” Why would she be so startled at the idea? She was the most fascinating person he’d ever met, her skill evident and her presence unforgettable.
“Oh.” She smoothed her hands over her thighs. “The thing is, you’re ridiculously pretty. Doesn’t this bother you?” Gaze intent on his, she touched her fingers to her scar.
“I realize I have an aesthetically pleasing appearance.” It was simply another tool he used when necessary—add a layer of beauty and people would ignore the most obvious danger, refuse to see the monster stalking them. “The only thing that bothers me about your scar is that someone might’ve given it to you. Who was it?”
She stared at him, blinked. “Car crash,” she said slowly, watching him as you might a feral animal. “When I was a child. No one you need to kill.”
He gave a curt nod. “As for the other—you’re beautiful. That’s undeniable fact. Dark eyes, lush lips, flawless skin, thick and soft hair. You also have the correct facial proportions.”