Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
When Ghost releases a long string of curse words, I don’t think any of his messages he’s sent this morning have been well-received. He’s more agitated than usual.
“гребаный ублюдок,” he roars before tossing his cell phone to the floor with such force it shatters on impact.
As his hands shoot up to his hair, he unshadows the scarred side of his face. He always sits a certain way, his head angled to hide his marks. But right now, he is exposed, and the image is more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. It doubles the vision in my head of him comforting me, which brings me to the brink of believing they’re true.
The buttons on his shirt are undone, and he hasn’t put on the shoes he toed off last night. Despite the carnage I feel brewing, he looks casual and relaxed.
When he grimaces in pain, my first thoughts are to run to him, but I hold back. Just. “What’s wrong?”
“My head.” He more rips at his temples than massages them. “It’s fucking pounding.”
Recalling the way Master Rudd’s wives soothed him during one of his regular migraines, I slip off the bed and slowly pad Ghost’s way. I hate the shake my hands have when I raise them to his face, but it can’t be helped. I can’t massage his temples without touching his scars, but he’s made it obvious more than once that I’m not allowed to do that.
His hot breath hits my cheeks when I circle the throb at the sides of his forehead, but he doesn’t snatch up my wrist as anticipated. He surrenders to my gentle touch, his head slightly flopping back.
Its drop tugs me forward, making us more aligned and adding to the bristling heat teeming between us.
An unexpected smile tugs at my lips when Ghost places his hand over mine and rotates my fingers in a circular motion. “Just like when you stroke your clit… swivels, not jabs.”
Seemingly feeling my smile, Ghost’s eyes pop open. They show he’s in pain, but they’re not as murky as they were on the cargo ship and more free than they’ve ever been the past three days.
My breathing shallows when he drags his thumb across the goose bumps dotting along my neck. He’s tracing the effect he has on me while doubling the rise of the bumps.
I realize my error when he murmurs, “I shouldn’t have marked you. You just…” He doesn’t speak another word. Instead, he removes my hand from his left temple and glides it down his face—the unmarked side of his face.
My heart launches into my throat when he does the same to the right side, but instead of going straight down, he outlines the marks scoured into his skin with my fingertips.
He stops halfway down before yanking his hand away. He doesn’t take mine with his though, and I don’t remove it. I take in the mottled tautness of his scars with my fingertips before adding my thumb into the mix. I trace it over his brow that’s doing a good job of disclosing how close he came to losing his eye.
The difference in the age of his scars is obvious. The one similar in length and size to Lera’s seems old, almost the same age as him, but the smaller, darker ones are fresh. They’ve not been there anywhere near as long.
I knew this because of the difference in his face from our first meeting to our second, but I feel privileged to be given the chance to make my own assessment.
I lock eyes with Ghost when he asks, “Scared?”
“No.” I shake my head to add to my short statement. “Not of you.”
“Who then?” I realize his thumb is still on my neck, counting my pulse when I swallow harshly about his ability to read me. “Who, маленький ягненок?”
Although this will most likely get me in trouble, I murmur, “Lera.” When his brows furrow, I push out quickly, “Not her scar. She is so adorable, I barely noticed it.” I take a quick breath, relieved my confession lowered the agitation on his face. “I’m scared as to why she has it and why it is almost identical to yours.”
“We were born by the same knife.” He pulls my hand down from his face, bites the tips, then orders me back to bed.
“I don’t need more rest,” I whine. “That’s all I’ve done the past week.” He hits me with a stink eye that has me immediately backing down. “I prefer my imagination than reality.”
It dawns on me that I said my statement out loud when Ghost replies, “What are you imagining, маленький ягненок?” I don’t even get in half a shrug before he barks out, “Don’t lie to me.”
“You holding me.” My heart patters along with my hands when the memory rolls through my head again. “We were wet, and you promised to take care of me. And—”