Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
I sit quietly for a moment, digesting his outburst. I love that he finds me beautiful and that he thinks the world sees us the same. But I'm not naive. I'm a big girl. As far as the world is concerned, that puts him leagues above me. I've never much cared for their opinions, but I do care about his.
I'm guessing this is a sensitive subject for him because of Tahani's mom. She didn't think he was good enough to be Tahani's dad, which I imagine left him with some pretty strong feelings about how the world perceives people.
Roman's gaze stays fixed on me, his hazel eyes darkening like an intimidating storm. He exhales sharply and runs a hand through his messy hair, muscles rippling in all their tattooed glory. "You want to know about ugly, Mila?"
"That's not what I…" I start, but his intense stare cuts me off.
"I've seen ugly," he says, voice bone-deep and raw. His eyes bore into mine like he's trying to etch the truth of his words onto my soul as he hauls himself to his feet, circling the table toward me. "I've seen men do things that would make your blood curdle. I've held a child when her life was ripped from her by a stray bullet." His voice falters as the corner of his mouth twists into a grimace. "And I've seen beautiful women destroyed because they were caught in someone else's crossfire. That's ugly."
His words hang heavy, leaving a bitter taste lingering in my mouth as I fight to swallow down my mortification—he's seen so much pain, so much ugliness that it makes my heart bleed for him.
He drops into the chair beside me and reaches out, fingers brushing gently across mine before he lays his hand over mine, engulfing it with his warmth. His touch is grounding—a lifeline amidst the horrific imagery his words paint.
"And beauty?" His fingers trail up my arm, tracing patterns on my skin that send shivers down my spine. His touch is possessive yet gentle—an intoxicating paradox that he masters with ease. His gaze softens as it drops down to our entwined hands. "Beauty isn't just how something or someone looks on the outside. It's about their soul."
His words wash over me, powerful and searing as they expose a glimpse of his innermost thoughts. His chest stirs with an intake of breath.
"You're everything beautiful in this fucked up world, Mila." His fingers trace my face lightly, causing shivers to race down my spine as an unspoken promise dances within his touch. "You aren't just beautiful because of your soft lips or the way your green eyes light up when you're happy," he murmurs, fingers dragging down my neck and across the curve of my shoulder. "You're beautiful because of your strength despite everything you've been through, because of your intelligence, your humor…and your heart."
His hand moves further down till it rests on my stomach, his fingers tracing slow circles against my skin as his next words land heavy in the air.
"And your body, Mila," he breathes, sounding almost reverent. "Your body is a work of art. Each curve, each line, echoes your resilience, your vitality. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."
The sincerity in his tone and the heated look in his eyes sends a jolt of warmth radiating from my heart to every corner of my body. He means every word.
I place a shaking hand against his jaw and lean forward, pressing my lips to his cheek. "Thank you," I whisper against his skin.
"Don't thank me for telling you the truth, baby." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, pressing his forehead to mine. "You're fucking beautiful. If anyone looks at the two of us and thinks you're the lucky one, they're fucking stupid. I know your worth. It's more than a motherfucker like me will ever be able to afford."
"Okay," I whisper, not sure what else to say. He's rendered me speechless.
He brushes his lips against mine and then hops up, circling back to his seat. "Now, books. Explain."
A smile dances on my lips. He's so autocratic sometimes, so demanding. I don't know if it's the cop in him or if it's just his nature, but when he wants something, he never really asks. He demands.
I probably shouldn't like it nearly as much as I do.
"Books were my escape from reality growing up. They were my companions, my mentors, the only ones who didn't leave when shit got hard." My voice wavers, but I press on, his intense gaze pulling the words from deep within me. "They were there for me when everyone else was busy with their lives, too consumed by their own troubles." I glance at him and see the tenderness in his eyes. "They showed me love and compassion when the world turned cold—when my own father turned cold," I whisper.