Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Spectre must’ve grabbed Mirage’s shoulder or upper arm because Grace felt his partner’s detachment from his right side. The instant loss ricocheted through him, hurting like no other pain in the world, causing his steely composure to shatter.
How dare he touch Mirage? It was the same as touching him.
Enhanced adrenaline flooded and burned through Grace’s veins, and like a coiled spring being released, he reacted.
Grace pivoted on one heel, threw his arm over Mirage’s shoulder, tucking his upper half under his arm, and landed a powerful blow into Spectre’s shoulder at the same time.
The impact was brutal. The sound of the dislocation slicing through the air was a painful testament to Grace’s ruthless, unforgiving nature.
Their handler must’ve forgotten what their organization had created.
Spectre let out a sharp cry. His face contorted into shock and a hint of anger as his right arm hung limply at his side.
Grace’s dispensing of punishment was swift and merciful because of who Spectre was. Anyone else would’ve been permanently injured…or dead.
But if Spectre ever touched Mirage out of anger again, Grace would throw him out the nearest window. And the last sounds they’d hear from Spectre would be the screams of him plummeting hundreds of feet to his death.
Mirage
Mirage wasn’t surprised at Grace’s reaction to Spectre grabbing his arm. It’d been foolish, and he’d gotten what he deserved.
Grace was still glaring down at Spectre from beneath his hood, his body tensed and looking prepared to strike again.
“Grace, I apologize. I didn’t mean to overstep,” Spectre gritted out. “It won’t happen again. Swear it.”
The rest of the team froze on the windy platform as if fearing they could be next if they also did something to piss Grace off. Ballistics certainly didn’t holler out again for the whereabouts of the twenty-five-hundred-dollar rifle.
Mirage touched the center of Grace’s back, digging his fingertips into the reflex points until he felt his muscles relax.
“We weren’t asking, Spectre,” Mirage said from behind the statue in front of him. “We will see you at the debriefing…tomorrow at thirteen hundred.”
On the way past the doctors, they glanced down at Grace’s shredded cargo pants, and Mirage nodded to Dr. Martin.
“Prepare a trauma room for me. I’ll tend to his wounds myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
He was glad they didn’t meet any more resistance.
Mirage guessed the doctors were the only ones on their team who knew how to keep their mouths shut and do what they were told.
Mirage didn’t allow Grace to go to his apartment first.
The open wounds had been exposed to enough bacteria and needed cleaning now.
Grace was reclined on the hospital bed, with one long leg hanging off the side and the injured one stretched out straight.
He was scowling for not being allowed to do what he wanted, and his narrowed eyes and rigid posture were yelling he was fine.
Mirage was sure he was. But their enhancements didn’t make them immune to infection.
The lab was empty, and the staff knew not to interrupt.
He didn’t trust anyone else to touch the one thing in the world he cared about.
He bypassed any protective gear or gloves before he got to work, refusing to allow latex gloves to mute his touch.
He pulled his stool to the edge of the bed. The scent of sweat, antiseptic, and the metallic tang of dried blood mingled in the air.
After tearing away what was left of Grace’s fatigues, Mirage got a better look at the four raised red marks on the top of his thigh, measuring the depth of the lacerated tissue.
The cuts looked exactly like he’d been clawed by a big cat.
“They’re not as bad as they look.” Mirage frowned. “A good washing and some Steri-Strips will be enough for these.”
Mirage scrubbed his hands and forearms, then got to work.
He began with treating the superficial scratches on Grace’s arms, which had already begun to heal. Mirage eyed the wide tear in the middle of Grace’s trench and tore it open, revealing a longer, deeper gash, his flesh pulled apart.
The edges were precise and even, as if he’d been cut by an obsidian blade.
Fuckin’ hell.
Mirage would have to use staples.
Grace’s espresso-colored eyes were on him. Shadows lurked behind them, showing Mirage the turmoil Grace was battling inside.
It was so intense he had to pause for a moment to inhale.
The sight of his partner’s ripped flesh was gut-wrenching. A testament that they weren’t as invincible as they’d been led to believe.
Mirage moaned when he felt Grace’s rough palm along his jaw, caressing his cheek until his breathing evened out.
“I’m okay,” Mirage answered.
It took a while, but neither attempted to break the charged silence as Mirage got back to work.
Mirage
The sterile environment began to fade away, leaving the two of them in their own made-up world, the one that held and protected their forbidden emotions of empathy and compassion.
Grace didn’t require anesthesia or numbing agents, but Mirage still tended to him with gentleness as if he were handling something precious.