Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
I go back to the bathroom and sit myself on the toilet seat, pulling off some tissue and squeezing it around my foot, stemming the blood. He’s barely been back a half hour, and we’re both already bleeding. I pull my foot up to my thigh and try to squeeze the shard out. It’s too deep.
Giving up, I hobble through the villa and break out onto the terrace, taking myself to the pool. I sit on the edge and plunge my legs in, watching as a drop of blood spreads, creating a pretty pink swirl. I rest my palms behind me and turn my face up to the sun, letting the warm rays bathe my skin as I gently swish my feet.
Calm. I don’t feel like I’ve needed it more in the past three years.
I hear the patio doors to Danny’s office slide open and the sound of his bare feet padding across the paving stones toward me. I return my eyes to the water, seeing his bare legs appear in my side vision. I look up at him, unable to see his face with the glare of the sun in the background. But I can see his bare legs and naked chest. And the sky-blue swim shorts that make his pale blue eyes pop madly. He lowers to the edge beside me, dropping his legs into the water, and finally his beautiful, damaged face comes into my sights. His dark hair looks shaggy, flopping across his forehead. His silver scar shines. My deadly masterpiece.
Holding out a tumbler, he smiles a little. A peace offering. “Have a drink,” he says quietly, taking a slug of his own, though his is amber, not clear like mine. I accept and have a small sip of vodka, reaching for his thigh and resting my palm on the thickness. He takes my hand and squeezes, and it’s silent, both of us just being. Settling.
Peace. We can only find it in each other.
“How’s Daniel?” he asks, swishing his feet next to mine.
“Growing up too fast.” I smile, but it’s sad. Every time my son visits, I feel the wrench in my gut when he leaves. I have to repeatedly remind myself that he’s not being stolen from me again. That he’ll be back. “I asked Hilary and Derek if he could stay a few more days, but they have some family wedding.” The people who bought my son on the black market after he was ripped from my arms have been quite open to Daniel getting to know me. It shouldn’t be a surprise. The alternative would be to lose him altogether, but I could never do that to Daniel. They’re all he’s ever known. When he learned of my true identity, naturally he was full of questions. Not being able to tell him the horrible, nasty, painful truth was hard. But it was also necessary. I’ll never expose him to the world I was once a part of. So according to my son, he was simply taken from me because I was unwell. Incapable of looking after him. It hurts. But not as much as he’d hurt knowing what I’d been through.
My eyes fall to the plaited brown leather strap around Danny’s wrist. It’s now threadbare, worn and faded, but Danny hasn’t taken it off since Daniel bought it for him three years ago on his first visit to St. Lucia.
I look up at him, and he peeks out the corner of his eye, rolling his wrist, coating his glass in Scotch. “I’m sorry for throwing the crystal bowl at your head.”
He sighs, hooking his arm around my neck and hauling me into his side, pushing his mouth into my hair. “I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”
I swallow, going heavy against his hard, sharp torso, as I watch the ripples of the water, my feet rubbing with his. I take another sip of my drink, swallowing hard. “I can’t agree to this.” There’s no way I can give him my blessing. I can’t see him off to his old town with a smile and a wave, knowing why he’s leaving me. I’ll go out of my mind.
“Let’s not fight,” he whispers, brushing his mouth through my hair, saying what he wants to say without even saying it. I’m not winning this one. Not now, anyway. But I absolutely do intend on reassessing my battle plan.
“What happened when you were there?” I ask.
“Before or after I met The Enigma?” he says, and I frown at the water.
“The Enigma?” He’s surely not talking about . . . I pull out of his embrace, looking at him with all worry I feel. “Is that who wants you dead?”
He smiles. “No, that’s who told me I wasn’t dead.”
“How did he know?” Jesus, The Enigma? I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? But, honestly, there was a massive question mark over whether he actually existed. Because while Danny Black, The Brit, The Angel-faced Assassin—AKA my husband—brandished his reputation unapologetically, the man dubbed The Enigma, for obvious reasons, did not.