Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
And I’m… whatever this is. Whatever my family and his men beat me into.
When he’s done drying my hair, he comes to stand in front of me and asks, “Is the dress okay?”
I nod while glancing at the toothbrush, and being as perceptive as ever, he picks up on it and opens another drawer. Taking a brand new toothbrush out, he removes it from the packaging and sets it down. “The doctor is here. Come to the bedroom when you’re done.”
I nod again, and only once he’s left do I brush my teeth for a few minutes to make sure they’re clean.
After rinsing out, I inhale the fresh mint and feel a little more human.
My gaze touches on the mirror, and a gasp escapes me when I see my face.
The fullness in my cheeks has faded so much that my cheekbones stand out, and dark shadows beneath my eyes make them look too big for my face. My skin is pale and dull, making me look as exhausted as I feel.
But that’s not what shocks me.
My eyes seem… lifeless, as if I died in that pen along with the rest of my family.
Unable to look at myself a second longer, I rush away from the mirror.
I hear the women wail, and coming to a standstill, I cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut.
I ran away to the kitchen. Every time. While they were being raped, I cooked, doing what I could to keep myself safe.
Not once did I try to help them.
Images of Ms. Fedorova being kicked to death bombard my mind, and I hunch down while a weird sound escapes me.
I did nothing. I just cowered in the pen and watched as they killed her.
Strong arms wrap around me, and as I slump against the solid chest, I realize Rodian is holding me again. I feel a prick and glance to my left, seeing the sharp needle being pulled out of my arm.
“It will help,” Rodian says before pressing a kiss to my hair.
Soon the horrific memories begin to blur, losing their potency, and my heartbeat slows until it’s normal again.
Exhausted to my core, I lean my cheek against his chest and close my eyes.
“Miss Donovan,” the doctor says while he wraps something around my upper arm. “I’m just going to check your vitals.”
Just as I begin to doze off, he asks, “Can you tell me how you feel?”
“Tired,” I mumble.
Rodian shifts, and picking me up, he climbs to his feet. A moment later I’m placed down on the bed, and his scent envelops me when he pulls the covers over me.
Waking up, it takes a few seconds for me to remember where I am.
I lift my head, glancing at a walk-in closet, and as I turn to my other side, I see Rodian sitting on a leather couch, a pillow and rumpled blanket beside him.
He’s only wearing black cotton pants, and because he’s leaning forward, typing on his phone, I can’t see much of his chest, but black ink swirls over his shoulders.
His hair is loose, though, reaching just past his shoulders in untamed waves. Somehow it suits him, especially with the thicker beard he seems to be growing.
Suddenly Rodian looks up, and the force of his intense blue eyes locks on me like a heat-seeking missile.
Setting his phone down on the couch, he gets up, and as he walks toward the bed, I’m struck speechless. Slowly, I sit up as I drink in every detail of the tattoo that covers his chest.
Positioned opposite each other across his pecs are two faces. One is smiling, its expression happy, while the other is contorted with anguish and grief.
So beautiful.
Cracked textures and heavy shading fill the space between the two faces.
My lips part when I make out fine strands of thread running through the entire tattoo. Some disappear behind the faces only to emerge again farther along, making it look as if the whole piece has been stitched together.
Oh my God.
Long sewing needles stick out at the bottom, and spools of thread sit near the hard edges of his abs, unraveling into the strands that connect everything.
Just as Rodian sits down on the side of the bed, I see hints of a theater with curtains, and a full-figure woman peeking from behind them.
That’s me.
Lifting my eyes to his, he must see the question in mine, because he taps his right side and says, “When I met you.” Moving his hand to the grief-stricken face on his left pec, he murmurs, “When I lost you.”
While I clung to my memories of him and escaped into dreams of him saving me, he inked his experience into his skin.
Every time he saw the tattoo, he had to think about me.
Up until now, the fear has been overriding everything, but as I stare at the only man who’s ever shown me affection, my heart skips a beat.