Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“Long story.” She stepped back and glided her hands up his arms. “Let’s get you out of here first.”
Her fingers bumped a patch of strangely rough skin on his bicep, drawing her attention to it.
What the—?
She’d been so focused on the drastic changes in his appearance—his beard, loss of weight, the healing skin on his injured arm—she didn’t notice until now that his tattoo had grown, stretching above his elbow and covering part of his shoulder.
The inked roses he had before blurred into something new. A portrait of a woman with straight black hair, holding her finger against the profile of her lips.
Her breath caught. “Is that—?”
“You.” He glanced at it and returned to her eyes with a flicker of light in the brilliant blue of his. “Badell gave me a last request. Since I couldn’t have you, this was the next best thing.”
He asked for a tattoo of my face on his arm?
Tingling warmth seeped through her limbs, sparking a sudden release of all tension. Her chest expanded. Her heart overflowed, and every whirling, erratic, out-of-control piece of her life snapped into place.
“Got it.” Cole stood and tossed the chain away. “I’ll run and get the jeep.”
“I can walk.” Tate twined his fingers with hers and strode to the door.
“It’s rocky—” She was jerked forward by his grip on her hand and stumbled to keep up.
He crossed the hot, rugged terrain on bare feet with his free hand shielding his eyes. He didn’t wince or slow, his gait matching Cole’s in strong, efficient strides. The only thing he wore was a small blanket, and as her slower pace put her behind him, his back moved into her line of sight.
The image was just like she remembered, only cleaner, free of infection, and healed. The raised skin from each cut formed an artistic illustration of pillars along his sides, a double gate hanging between them, and a silhouette of a woman levitating in the opening with the arc of the sun behind her head.
It was terrible and beautiful, summoning extreme reactions from horrific agony to profound wonder.
“You’re staring at it.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Have you seen it?”
“No.” His tone held deep anger, and he tugged her forward.
Cole explained the history of the monastery as they passed the stone structures, including the tragic love story that had compelled her to come here.
She and Tate didn’t speak, but they watched each other, their eyes sharing three months of loss, one night of lasting torture, and a future that didn’t need to be defined. Wherever they went from here, they would go there together.
When they reached the gate, he stopped abruptly and released her hand.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“That’s…” He stared up at the towering wrought iron bars and reached behind him, sliding his fingers over the welts on his back. “I’ve felt this so many times, trying to figure out… That’s it, isn’t it? He carved those gates on my back?”
Her chin trembled as she nodded. “I think he did it to see if I would find you. That’s why it took me so long. I’ve been searching for gates and—”
“There’s something else.” He moved his hand up his spine.
She edged back, watching as his fingers traced the feminine figure.
“It’s a silhouette,” she said on a serrated breath. “A woman.”
“Show me.” He pointed at the gates before him. “Walk through them.”
A swallow lodged in her throat. She glanced at Cole, who waited patiently behind her, surveying the perimeter. Then she moved to stand in the opening of the gate, facing Tate exactly as it was depicted on his back.
The sun sat high in the sky. If it were a few hours later, it would’ve been at the right height behind her head.
“It’s…” His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Beautiful. You’re absolutely stunning, Lucia.” He twisted to look at Cole. “Is that what my back looks like?”
“Pretty much.” Cole flicked his gaze between the gate and the illustration. “It’s uncanny, really.”
Tate regarded her for an endless moment before he lowered his head and stared at the ground.
“Okay.” He anchored his hands on his hips and made a sharp sniffing sound that almost resembled a laugh. His lips twitched, and he met her eyes. “Let’s go home.”
“Where’s home?” She reached her arm toward him, stretching her fingers.
He caught her hand and squeezed. “Wherever you are.”
CHAPTER 33
Four days later, Tate exited the physician’s room in Matias’ extravagant estate in Colombia. His muscles twitched with restless energy, and something in his chest pinched, urging him to go look for Lucia.
He couldn’t bear to be separated from her. Every time he left her side, it felt as though his limbs were being ripped from his body. He needed to get over that. Missing her was one thing. Smothering her was unhealthy.
He’d visited Picar, the old crusty resident doctor, three times now. But this meeting had been his last, because Picar had just given him a clean bill of health. No infections. No STDs. And other than the scarring on his back and the twinging discomfort in his arm, there was no permanent damage to his body.