Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
"I…"
"Did I hurt you, Amalia?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. Her hair is tangled around her face, her long pajamas all twisted up. She should look like a schoolmarm in the ridiculous flannel things, but she looks like a rumpled seductress. She's worn them the past two nights. "You just startled me." She blinks wide eyes at me. "Has anyone ever told you that you move like a freaking ninja?"
"A few times." I expel a sharp curse, scrubbing a hand through my hair. At least it's not shaking. I take another breath, trying to get myself under control. And then I cross back to the bed. "Let me see your throat."
"It's fine."
"Now, Amalia."
"Now, Amalia," she mimics, glaring at me. "El burro sabe más que tú."
The donkey knows more than you. I let her insult slide, not sure if she's realized yet that I speak Spanish fluently or if she's just venting to herself. With her, who knows? She's smart as hell. She also has a fiery temper and a fearless streak a mile wide.
She huffs and cranes her head back, allowing me to inspect her throat.
"No marks," I say. I was half convinced I was going to find bruises on her beautiful skin. The thought made what's left of my soul shrivel. I've seen—and done—things that would horrify most people, but the thought of causing this woman even a moment of pain feels like acid poured directly into my veins.
I don't want to harm this woman. Far from it. The longer I spend near her, the more I find myself wanting things I've never wanted until now. Things I've never allowed myself to want. When I made my deal with my father to free Nico, I left behind dreams of a normal life, of a wife and kids and love and companionship. I couldn't allow myself to want things that made me vulnerable. But they beckon now, whispering as if from the grave to remind me those desires aren't dead. I simply buried them alive. And they're no longer content to lie quietly.
Because of her. Because something about her makes me feel things I shouldn't, makes me crave a taste of freedom. She's consuming me, piece by piece, minute by minute. Where's the cold, calculated crime boss now? Where's the heartless, ruthless king now? Already, he's slipping away, replaced by someone I don't recognize. And yet I don't hate it. I…relish it.
Every electrifying moment.
She's been in my bed for two nights, slowly driving me mad. She tosses and turns, mumbling in her sleep. The row of pillows she diligently places between us each night taunts me, daring me to cast them aside and pull her into my arms. But I haven't. I've kept my hands to myself, clinging to honor by the skin of my teeth. I haven't touched her at all since that first day, trying to give her time to get used to me, to gain her trust.
"I told you I was fine," she mutters without heat.
I hesitate for a split second and then wrap my hand around her throat again, desperate to replace the memory of that harsh touch with something softer, something befitting a queen. She tenses for a moment, and then slowly melts into my touch, shivering.
My blood heats, my cock stirring back to life. She might not want to admit it, but she feels me too. She wants me too. Her eyes go glassy, the pulse in her throat jumping. I resist the urge to lean down and taste it on my tongue, fighting the bonds of obsession even though I want to fall backward into them.
Slowly, slowly, I remind myself. I'm a dying man, ready to drown myself in an oasis. But I can't run before I walk, or this will all blow up in my face.
"I have nightmares," I say…the closest thing to an apology I've ever given. My thumb makes circles against the tendon in the side of her neck. "Bad ones. You woke me from one."
"You were talking in your sleep." Her eyes seek mine in the lamplight. "You were talking about your mom, mumbling for her to run."
"I'd regret it for the rest of my life if I hurt you."
"Oh," she says, her throat working as she swallows hard. "Then I guess it's a good thing you didn't. Can I ask a question?"
I jerk my head in a nod.
"Were you there?" she whispers. "I mean the day she was murdered?"
"My twin brother and I were both there," I say, pushing down the memories that immediately bubble to the surface. They're too close tonight, still too raw. I release her throat and take a step back, lifting my shirt.
Her gaze falls to my abdomen, raking like wildfire. Everything it touches goes up in flames. Until she sees the scars.
"Rafe," she gasps, her expression stricken. She lifts a shaking hand, tracing her fingertips across the puckered flesh of my stomach. The heat of her hand sears me. How long has it been since I willingly let anyone touch me? I can't remember. "You were shot?"