Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
He looked like he wanted to ask but only shook his head. “I’d rather not know.”
And he was right. It’s better if he doesn’t.
I dig through my stuff and start to put clothes away in the drawers. I’m thinking about my life, about what I wanted, and how I ended up here instead. I never asked for much—a little freedom maybe, a little space to have friends and find my place in the world—but even that ended up being too much.
Instead, I was always nothing more than a bargaining chip.
I try not to let the bitterness get to me, but I’m at a really low point when I open the box with my fencing equipment inside.
I stare down at the jacket and slowly lift it out. It was pure white once, but now it’s slightly graying from use, and there’s a little blood stain on the sleeve where I cut myself during practice one morning. I smile, thinking about the rush I felt on the fencing piste, lunging forward and scoring a hit and ripping out my wild battle victory scream. Nothing felt better than ending the match with a sore throat from all the shouting.
Saber was my preferred style, and that’s all about aggression, reading your opponent, and timing. I was good: never afraid to take the initiative and clinical in my finishing.
Without letting myself think too much about it, I start to dress in my old uniform. Breeches, plastron, chest protector, jacket, socks, and shoes. I stare at myself in the mirror and try not to let myself cry.
That’s the girl I remember. The girl I wish I could be again.
The fucking warrior.
There’s a noise on the stairs. A strange jolt of panic hits me. I don’t know why, but I don’t want Lev to see me like this. I strip off the jacket, remove the chest protector, and I’m just pulling on a baggy sweatshirt to cover up when he knocks at the door and opens it.
“Aren’t you supposed to wait for me to tell you to come in?” I say, annoyed as he looks in at me.
Lev’s got his mask on. That charming smirk’s on his lips. He’s handsome, and I hate myself every time I see him. My heart races when he’s around and the memory of his hands on my body comes back unbidden. The sheer sexual intensity. How incredible to feel. How it was like I was that woman again. The one from the piste. The fencer, using my body. Not quite the same thing, but pretty close.
“You’re unpacking in the wrong room,” he says, surveying the place.
“I thought about your suggestion and decided to ignore it.”
“Didn’t realize it was an option.”
“Are we done bickering now? Can I go back to work?” I cross my arms, sweat beading my back. I don’t know why but the way he looks at me makes me so freaking nervous.
His eyes scan the mess. I can tell he’s not particularly impressed, at least until he spots the jacket I discarded on top of a pile of underwear. His face lights up again. I don’t love the sudden mischievous expression.
“Is that what I think it is?” he asks.
I pick up the jacket and toss it onto the bed. “It’s nothing. Just my old fencing kit, that’s all.”
“I didn’t know you still fenced.”
“Sometimes. I don’t know.” I clear my throat, not sure why I’m not being honest. “It’s been a while.”
“When was the last time you put that on?”
Five minutes ago. “Honestly, why do you care? I don’t even know why I brought it.”
“I want to see you wear it.”
For a second, I think he’s kidding. But the charming smile’s fading as he stares at me like he’s about to stalk across the room and make me put on the jacket. And nothing but the jacket.
A chill runs down my spine. That’s the same look from that night. The pure, animalistic lust, the physical need. It’s terrifying, but it makes my heart race out of control.
“I don’t think it’ll fit,” I say stupidly, and it’s not even a good lie.
“Let’s find out.” He steps into the room. “Take off the sweatshirt.”
“What? Right now?”
“I’ll watch.”
“How about we aren’t doing any of that?”
He licks his lips and looks down at me. “You have the pants on already, don’t you?” His expression darkens. “You were playing dress-up already.”
Well, shit. I guess he’s more observant than I realized. The sweatshirt’s big and nearly down to my knees, but it’s kind of hard to hide the very distinct white cotton breeches.
“I was just testing it, okay?”
“Test it again.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“And I’m not asking.” He moves toward me. “Put on the outfit, Carmie.”
My breath catches in my throat. Why does this excite me so much? Something about him wanting to look at me makes the pulse between my legs skyrocket.