Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
It’s weird. I have no idea why I do it. As soon as I do, I close the bottle and immediately try to wash it off when I hear footsteps.
I grab a towel and dry my hands, my heartbeat picking up.
“Mara?” It’s Matthaeus.
I set the towel back on the rack and walk out of the bedroom.
He looks me over with concern. “Give me your wet things. I’ll put them in the dryer.”
I go back into the bathroom, grab the pile of clothes on the drying rack and hand them to him. I then follow him out of the bedroom and into the living area. He opens a door off the kitchen and disappears. A moment later I hear the tumbling of a dryer.
“Did you put the ointment on?” he asks when he’s back.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to have a look at it—”
“It’s fine.” I turn to the stove where soup is bubbling in a pot. It smells wonderful and my stomach growls loudly.
“Sit down,” he says, hearing it too.
I sit at the table. A moment later, he sets a deep bowl of tomato soup with meatballs in front of me, along with a basket of bread, a dish of butter, and a glass of water.
He takes the seat across from mine with his own bowl and an already open beer. He sets the bowl down and leans back, eyeing me as he drinks from the bottle. It’s hard to hold his gaze so I focus on my soup, blowing on each spoonful and trying not to tip the bowl straight down my throat. I am so hungry.
It’s awkwardly quiet as we eat and every time I glance out the window I see how heavy the snow has gotten. I can’t help but think about Dante out there. Wonder if he’s okay.
“He risked his life to get you out,” Matthaeus says.
“He shouldn’t have.” The words are out before I can stop them but what I want to say is I’m sorry. That I know he did. But it’s not that I don’t mean what I said. Dante shouldn’t have risked his life for me because Petrov will hunt him down and kill him for taking me. “I don’t mean—”
“More?” Matthaeus gets to his feet, cutting me off.
I nod.
He takes my bowl and ladles more soup into it. I am quick to spoon up a meatball. “What I mean is Petrov will come after him,” I tell Matthaeus once he sits down again with his second bowl.
“That’s the point.”
I put my spoon down and study him. “What?”
“That’s the point,” he repeats as if I’ve just not heard.
“Then he’ll get himself killed. You know that. Petrov will kill him and you and all the others, too. You don’t know him like I do. You shouldn’t have taken me from him.”
Matthaeus sets his elbows on the table and leans toward me. Any kindness is gone as his eyes bore into mine. “I’d love to see that mother fucker try.”
I lean away, feel goosebumps rise along my arms, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
He grins, relaxing back in his seat. After a long minute he checks his watch. “You should go to bed.”
Guilt gnaws at me. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“Now you’re worried about him?”
I lower my lashes.
He sighs. “He’ll be fine. Just needs to blow off steam.”
“He’s all alone out there,” I say, my gaze out the window.
“I sent men to keep an eye on him. I can track him.”
“Track him?”
“I’ve known Dante a while. Know not to let him go out there alone.”
I smile a little. Well, I try to move my lips into a smile. I don’t know the last time I really smiled. Can’t remember what my own laughter sounds like.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, pushing my chair back and standing. I’m about to go into the bedroom when I see a pair of scissors hanging on a magnetic strip on the wall along with a few sharper knives.
“Don’t,” he says as if anticipating I’ll grab one of those knives.
I turn to him. “The scissors.”
“No.”
“I want to cut my hair.”
He looks confused.
“Please. I just want to cut if off.”
He studies me for a long moment, then stands, gets the scissors, and hands them to me. He follows me down the hall and into Dante’s bedroom. I guess he’s afraid I’ll hurt myself.
In the bathroom I stand in front of the mirror looking at the mess of too-long hair. It’s so knotted I just grab a handful, and, without a moment’s hesitation, I snip.
Matthaeus stands in the doorway watching, expression fixed, not giving anything away. I hack more hair off, so the end result is a not-quite even cut to my shoulders.
I set the scissors down and peer closer at my face, touch my hair. I can almost get my fingers through it now. I have never cut my own hair. Never been allowed to say what I want to do with it.