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)
I mean. I think I am.
When I'm alone, and it's quiet like this after a dream, I remember… a little.
I know I have—had?—brothers. What troubles me is that my husband says I don't, and there's no indication he's lying when he talks to me. Sometimes, he seems evasive, but my instincts say he’s telling the truth when it comes to my past. And yet… it doesn’t ring true. He swears I only have a father, so why do I remember people calling me their sister?
And that woman in my dream, she was my mother. At one point, anyway. I know that now. I’ve seen her more than once.
That’s one thing that doesn't make sense to me at all.
I don’t believe he's completely lying to me. He seems confident in what he’s telling me, but occasionally… just every once in a while… there’s a tiny blip. Whether it's in his expression or the way I feel, I start to fear that something is wrong. And I need to know why.
Why am I here? Who am I? How do I get back to knowing who I am?
"Are you all right, baby?" His hand comes to the small of my back. I love the way he touches me like this, as if he and I are the only two people in this whole world.
My heart beats faster at the sleepy-husky sexiness of his voice when he wakes. I roll over and let myself bask in the heat that radiates off him like a furnace, the heaviness of his arm on my back, the comfort of knowing that he’s my knight, willing to defend my castle.
How can it be that my past is shrouded in mystery, yet it feels like I’ve been his forever? Because there’s a sureness between us, an honesty, that makes me cleave to him.
"Yeah, you know how it is," I say softly. "When I wake up like this, everything's all muddled. You should sleep, Rafail. I swear you're like a cat."
He shrugs his big shoulder but doesn’t deny it.
It’s familiar to me now, the way he’s so protective. When we were attacked, and he pushed me beneath him, shielding me with his very own body, I knew then that he would take a bullet for me.
And that's not the only thing he protects me from.
In the quiet of night, when I wake trembling, fragmented dreams still lingering, he holds me until my breathing slows, and I can go back to sleep. When we make love, I crave the weight of his body pressing into mine, my wrists wrapped in his grip. There’s freedom in the surrender. Quiet. And in the still, waking hours before sunrise, when my dreams leave me doubtful and confused, the sturdy feel of his strong arms around me brings me calm.
"I just wish I could remember."
He threads his fingers through mine. "Remember what?"
There's a note of edginess in his voice. Have I exhausted his patience?
"Who I am," I say softly. He should know that by now.
Rafail turns to me, bracing himself on his elbow as his eyes roam lazily over my body. "I told you," he says in a low growl. "You're my wife. Do you need me to help you remember that?”
"Rafail," I try, but once he sets his mind on something, there is no turning him away. Laser-focused on me, I know what’s coming: a reminder of who I am.
The next thing I know, I’m pinned underneath him. His lips ghost my cheek, my jaw, my collarbone, trailing lower still to my breasts. My nipples furl. He licks one, then the other, as his thick, rough fingers lazily push my thighs apart. He grips one of my thighs in his strong palm and squeezes.
"I’m sleepy," I lie in protest, which earns me a sharp slap of his palm on my thigh.
"Allow me to wake you up, Mrs. Kopolov."
I sigh as he flicks one nipple with his finger and slaps the underside of my breast. Hard to believe he was just asleep, and now he’s on fire. Morning sex has become a ritual.
"Rafail." I squirm because when I protest a little, he bears down harder, and I love that. This man is not tame. He may play nice for me on occasion—very rarely—but then the savage in him’s unleashed.
Here, though, in the privacy of our bedroom, where we make love, he lets his guard down.
Whatever I wrestle with comes to a raging halt as his lips claim mine and his fingers spread me wide.
He’s mine. Mine—every damn inch of his masculine, bossy, grumpy self.
I playfully roll him over on his back, which I honestly wouldn’t be able to do if he didn’t allow it. He smirks as he arranges me on top of him, giving me the momentary delusion that I was the one who pushed him over. He’s much bigger than I am, stronger. I couldn’t push him over if I tried. And believe me, I’ve tried.