Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
All that said, though, the conflict within me was very much real.
Maybe Mikhail Osman had been fake.
Maybe the world he had shown me had been fake.
But there was nothing fake about what I had felt.
It didn't matter that the man didn't really exist, that what I thought he had felt toward me had been a lie.
Because to me, he had existed, it had been real.
Knowing the truth didn't suddenly make all the rest fall away.
He'd kissed me like a promise.
He'd taken my hand like he'd never let it go.
He'd ignited a spark that had warmed all the cold places inside.
He'd shown me sides of myself I had never seen.
He'd offered me sweetness and safety and passion and security.
He had let me grow used to having that, having him.
He'd offered me the world like he would always be there to explore it with me.
Then he'd left, taking with him the maps, the compass, my sense of direction, my sense of self.
And it had all been real, damnit.
It had been real to me.
You couldn't logic-away the fact that my system had felt the longing, the sweetness, the curiosity, the heat, had laughed, shivered, smiled, dreamed.
At the end of the day, it didn't matter that Mikhail Osman was the name on a file folder in some hidden corner of the CIA headquarters, that it was just all pocket litter with nothing real but his face, that every story he'd told me had been created, curated, that he'd talked a certain way, dressed a certain way, acted a certain way because he'd known it was what he had to say and wear, how he had to act to win me over. It didn't matter that every seemingly random date had been planned maybe even months before. It didn't matter that every kiss, every touch, every soul-shaking orgasm had been a carefully considered move across a chess board I had no idea I had pieces placed on.
It didn't fucking matter.
Because it had worked.
It had worked so well.
He'd stolen my pawns, my rooks, my knights, my bishops, my queen.
Then he'd taken my king.
The game was over before I knew we were playing.
He'd won.
He had done what he had come to the country to do, what he had been instructed to do, what he had been paid to do.
He'd caught my eye.
He'd charmed me.
He'd stolen my attention.
He'd gained my affection.
He'd earned my trust.
He'd made me believe.
He'd made me hope.
He'd made me fall in love with him.
And it had been real.
So fucking real, damnit.
- PAST -
Mackenzie - 15 years ago
A part of me had been worried he might not call.
I distinctly remembered some speech my mother had given me when I was thirteen about no one buying the cow when you gave the milk away for free.
I had never realized how damaging that talk had been until after Mikhail, when I had worried myself sick all night and half of the next day, thinking that now he'd had me, he would move on to the next girl.
Bt the time lunch rolled around, and I hadn't heard from him, I had myself in knots.
But as I walked out the door to go drown my misery in whatever I could find that was full of chocolate or cheese, or both, a figure pushed off the side of the building, moving in at my side.
"You're taking lunch late today," he informed me, wrapping his arms around my lower back, hauling my body to his, pressing a kiss - deep, lingering - to my lips until I felt myself swaying on my feet. "Been waiting out here for almost an hour," he added when I moved inward, burying my face in his neck, taking a deep breath, breathing him in, feeling the flutter in my chest as he squeezed me extra hard.
"I wasn't expecting you," I told him, pulling back, watching as his smile tipped up.
"I told you I would see you today."
"Yeah, I just..." I trailed off, exhaling a breath. "I wasn't sure if you, you know, after. Nothing. Never mind. What do you want for lunch?" I asked, pulling away, only finding myself stopped by a hand snagging my wrist.
It took effort to force my gaze upward, knowing my cheeks were red, knowing he would see the insecurity, the embarrassment over it.
"You thought I was going to sleep with you, and never call you again?" He almost seemed offended, making my belly twist.
"It's just... I mean... I know I'm not like super exp... seriously, let's just go to lunch," I half-begged, wishing a sinkhole would open up right under my feet and suck me in.
"Okay, no," he said, giving my arm a little tug, pulling me closer, putting his other hand to my hip to guide me back toward his little hiding spot to the side of the door, pressing me back against the wall, trapping me there. "We're not going to lunch until we clear a few things up. First, if I say I am going to call or see you, I am going to call or see you. And second," he went on, tucking his chin a bit, holding my gaze, voice doing that low, smooth thing that always shivered through me. "Don't you ever try to convince yourself that you're, in any way, not enough. You're enough. And experience has nothing to do with it. Okay?" he asked, actually waiting for me to give him a nod, finding it hard to speak with the choked up feeling in my throat.