Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 101988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
“Va te faire foutre!” (Fuck you!) I shouted back.
I ducked.
She winced as I threaded one arm around her back and one beneath her legs. “W-What are you doing?”
I cursed her flinch.
I loathed her fear.
English returned along with human intelligence. “I won’t hurt you. You’re safe with me.”
She sucked in a breath and shook her head.
I didn’t know if she argued she was safe with me or didn’t want me to pick her up.
Either way, both were happening.
“Je jure,” (I swear), I breathed. “I’ll take care of you.”
She gave me nothing.
But I didn’t need her to speak to hear her judgement.
I’d whittled away her trust ever since I told her I wasn’t going to save her.
I would never get that back, and…in that storm with blood on my hands, it fucking hurt worse than anything.
Footsteps pounded behind me as I took her weight, plucked her from the ground, then hefted her into my arms. The cuts on my knuckles and radiating pain in my back didn’t bother me.
Her silence and broken softness did.
It did horrible, horrible things to me.
It confused and bewildered me because the beast inside still very much wanted to hurt her. To stamp his brutal ownership on her and replace whatever mark that cunt had left behind, but…beneath that longing lurked another one just as strong…perhaps even stronger.
It wanted to hurt her, yes, but it wanted to hurt everyone else a thousand times fucking worse.
“Henri. What the hell is the meaning of this?” Victor yelled as he marched into our battleground. Four guards trailed him while a fifth held a black umbrella over Victor’s head. The guard fought a war, trying to keep the wind from snatching it.
Words replaced the roars in my head.
I settled back into being nothing more than a man.
Swallowing back the taste of metallic blood—my blood—I cradled Ily close and shrugged. “They touched what was mine.”
Victor looked past us. “Who the fuck tied Peter to a tree? In a goddamn lightning storm?”
The skinny, pot-bellied man who I hadn’t managed to murder staggered to his feet. “I-I did, Vic, but it was only—”
“Are you trying to turn him into a barbecue?” Victor snarled. “Because one bolt of lightning and poof.” He snapped his fingers. “He’s Sunday’s roast.”
“Sorry, Victor.” The man dropped his eyes.
“Go release him and take him back to the stables.” Victor glanced at one of the guards.
“Yes, Sir.” The guard nodded and splashed through the grass to do what he’d been commanded.
“And you.” Victor pointed at me. “Explain.”
“I told you.” I shrugged, my biceps bunching with Ily’s weight. “She makes me irrational.”
“Mon Dieu, you test me. Je deviens trop vieux pour ces conneries.” (I’m getting too old for this fucking shit.) His eyes narrowed on the two men who hadn’t moved. “Whatever you’ve done seem beyond the capabilities of Dr Belford.” Pulling out a walkie-talkie from his blazer, he cupped it to avoid the rain. “Call Captain Roderigo. Two need to be airlifted to the hospital.”
A crackle and a response. “Yes, Sir.”
Shoving the walkie-talkie back into his pocket, he pinched the bridge of his nose as if I’d once again tried his infamous patience. Finally, he sighed, dropped his arm, and glowered. “If they’re dead, you and I are having yet another fucking conversation.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
“Just…” He flung up his hands, hitting the brolly edges. “Just go to bloody bed, Henri. Before I shoot you.”
I bowed my head. “As you wish.” My eyes caught the discarded gem that I’d found and hurled at some Master’s head. Clutching Ily tight to my chest, I grabbed it, placed it awkwardly on her stomach, then stalked through the thunderstorm. “Goodnight.”
I didn’t stop until I’d dripped all over Victor’s stone pavers in the foyer, left a path of rain up the stairs, and sloshed my way down the storm-drafty corridor.
My hand slipped on my doorknob as I shifted Ily’s weight in my arms.
She tried to get down, but I just shook my head, opened the door, kicked it closed, and carried her into the bathroom.
Placing her gently on her feet in the shower, I turned the water as hot as she liked it—boiling brimstone—and unbuttoned the same shirt I’d only buttoned up a few moments ago.
She didn’t say a word as I stripped her.
Didn’t move as I tossed the soaking material out of the shower, then tore off my own clothing. Only once I was bare as her did I reach for the sweet-smelling body wash and fill my palm.
Her eyes squeezed closed as I gently rubbed suds into her grass-stained skin. My teeth gritted as I fought prehistoric urges and focused on cleansing her from that other bastard.
I didn’t look at her face. Didn’t dare study her eyes. The only thing I could focus on was ensuring her bones weren’t broken and her body wasn’t destroyed. Her soul would come next…only once I was sure she was physically in one piece.