Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
The young woman, who stands in the shadows—I don’t know who she is, stares at a man beside her. I blink. I didn’t realize anyone else was in the room. “Sir?”
She’s asking him for permission? Wait. Do I know that man? He’s tall and broad and towers over the two women.
“No morphine,” he says in a low growl of a voice. “No painkillers at all.”
No painkillers? I’m bound to this bed and not allowed anything for the pain. A moment ago, I contemplated not having them at all, but being disallowed them is another level of cruel. I stare at the man, trying to place him, but he’s shadowed and unfamiliar.
The girl’s voice trembles as she protests. "Rafail, that's too cruel."
I don’t know the name Rafail. But I don’t even know my name.
“Since when do I give a shit about that?” he snarls, turning away from the deprecating look she gives him.
“Please,” I say, my voice trembling. “Someone tell me how I got here. Who I am. What happened?”
The man steps out of the shadows. I note the sharp angle of his jaw, the utter coldness in his cruel eyes. For some reason, he’s vibrating with barely controlled rage, directed straight at me.
“Wait,” the woman says with concern. “She doesn’t know who she is.”
His unconcerned shrug troubles me. "Not out of the ordinary." Turning back to the woman in white, he orders, "Give her water and food so she can keep her energy up. No morphine."
I watch as she prepares a cocktail of sorts for me with deft fingers.
Questions spin through my mind. I open my mouth to speak to the woman, but he’s watching me. I don’t trust anyone in this room. My instincts tell me I can at least trust the gentle one, but I don't even know who I am. Can I even trust my instincts?
While they talk in low voices among themselves, I note everything I can. First, I am shackled to a bed. The woman next to me is friendly enough, but she obeys the big, muscled man.
That guy is hot. Devastatingly, dangerously handsome, if cruel. Decidedly used to getting his way it seems, and for some reason, which is wildly confusing to me, he hates me. He's obviously powerful, so I can only assume I’ve done something to offend him. Too bad I have no idea what that is.
But because this young woman next to me seems like an ally, I can maybe use her kindness to my advantage.
I push through the discomfort and use my voice. It hurts. Who knew that it could actually hurt to speak? But my chest tightens, and my throat is dry. "How long have I been here?" I begin with an easy question. Something that should be simple enough for her to answer without fearing the wrath of the man.
She leans in, her voice kind. "You came here last night, and you've slept all day.”
Not long, then. How did I get here?
When he stalks toward me, the young girl sits up straighter, her eyes wide in fear. “Rafail,” she says, pleading.
“You know what she did. I’m not going to be gentle,” he says in a growl. “Do I need to excuse you from her care?”
“No,” she whispers, her face pained as she turns away.
“I promise. I won’t hurt her in front of you.”
I blink in shock. In front of her? What will he do when he has me alone?
He looms over me like a fire-breathing dragon, and I shrink back on the sheets. I’m not going to be gentle. Who is he? Who am I? What did I do that’s infuriated him?
He’s tall and unyielding, his large frame filling the space between us. I’m dwarfed by him. His face is all sharp angles and hard edges—dark-brown eyes glaring at me, a chiseled jaw clenched in barely contained rage, a full mouth pressed into a cruel line as if he’s holding back a thousand things he wants to hurl at me. Dark stubble graces his sharp jawline, adding a raw, dangerous, masculine edge to his flawless appearance.
His eyes are dark and intense, a deep, bottomless black that seems to drink everything in, pinning me in place. They’re cold, and yet, something like fire burns in their depths. Broad shoulders fill out a pressed white dress shirt, his muscles straining against the fabric. A man built for dominance. Strength. A man made for War.
I stare at his arms corded with muscle, large, capable hands, one clenched at his side while the other rests on the edge of the bed, trapping me as if the handcuffs aren’t enough. Leaning over, he inspects my injuries in silence, as if… as if I belong to him. It’s disconcerting. No, it’s terrifying.
“Who are you?” I whisper when he brushes his fingers along my jaw, his thumb grazing my lips. Fear spikes my pulse, and I try to turn away but can’t. The touch is so… intimate. Possessive. And he’s a stranger to me.