Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 144411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Are we equals now? Ramsay has never been violent with me. The iron brand was harsh but he did it for my own protection. He’d never struck me or flogged me or purposely caused me pain that I didn’t want or enjoy.
But I did. I hurt him, I ravaged him. And I don’t think he enjoyed it. I think the madness I lost myself to, the rage that consumed me like a beast, I think I caused him a lot of pain.
And he just let me do it. He wanted me to do it. He didn’t enjoy it, it was all for me, so that I could finally be rid of the anger inside me.
Only it didn’t work. I’m still mad, this deep festering pit of fury inside me, and now I’m ashamed and scared. Scared because what if I broke something between us? What if I both scarred him and scared him? What if that thin line of respect we seemed to have for each other has been shredded the same as his face?
What happens then?
What happens next?
I spit on the floor and wipe my mouth with the edge of my shirt, then I crawl over to the broken glass from the porthole, picking up a jagged edge. Wind whistles in through the shattered window as I turn the shard of glass over in my hands. Once upon a time I thought this would be my way out, because I couldn’t live with my regrets. Now I have another regret to add to the pile.
Then the door opens.
I hold my breath as Ramsay appears.
Before I have a chance to take him in, he rushes over to me in a blur of speed and plucks the jagged glass from my hands, grabbing me at the wrists, my hands upturned.
He stares down at them, brows furrowed, perhaps worried I’d hurt myself.
But I’m staring at him.
At his handsome, gorgeous, lovely face.
It’s back to normal. It’s covered in faint red lines, slightly raised in some areas, but his face has healed itself back together. His eyes are beautifully clear, the sea at dusk, and I can’t help the smile it brings me.
“What were you doing?” he whispers harshly, his gaze pinning me in place.
I just shake my head, tears welling in the back of my throat. “You’re okay,” I say. “Your face…”
He manages a stiff smile. “I told you I would be fine. The question is, are you?”
I free one hand from his grip and place it at his cheekbone, fingers gently trailing along it, then down the hollow of his cheeks and over his strong jaw where his facial hair scratches my skin, to the faint groove in his chin. His eyes close and he breathes in sharply at my touch.
Then I move my fingers along to his lips, blessed lips that know how to please me so well, where he moves his head to the side so that he plants a gentle kiss on my palm. “I’m fine,” he says quietly yet adamantly, staring at me now.
“I caused you pain,” I say to him, and he raises my other hand to his mouth and kisses my wrist, the tender sensation causing a ripple in my chest. “I was a monster.”
“I know,” he says. “But you’re my monster, Maren. My fierce little creature. You did what you were born to do and what I told you to do.”
I raise a brow. “Always have to be in control, do you?”
“Aye,” he says. “And I needed you to be free of the shackles that keep your monster in check.”
I give my head a shake. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to be a monster if it does that to you.”
He lets out a smile of reprieve, his gaze stalling at my lips. “I must admit that’s a relief, because I don’t want to go through that again. I’ve had my fair share of pain in this world but that one took the prize.”
“I’m sorry,” I wince, feeling a sharpness in my chest.
“Do not apologize again, luv,” he says to me, taking my hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “What’s done is done.”
“It was a mistake,” I say, ashamed.
“There are no mistakes. Just choices that took us on a different path.” He clears his throat. “At any rate, now I’ve learned that you still might hate me, but you don’t actually want me dead. And that, my cearban, is a relief.”
“Cearban?” I say, trying to imitate his Scottish brogue. “You’ve used that word before. What does it mean?”
“Gaelic for shark,” he explains. “Basking shark, to be specific.”
I frown. “Basking shark? But they don’t even have teeth.”
“Aye.” He grins. “But they have a very large mouth.”
I laugh at that and he reaches out and touches my necklace. “I wanted to ask you about this,” he says thoughtfully. “Was this from your shark friend? Nill, was it?”