Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
My heart lodged in my throat; I nodded. His fingers squeezed, cutting off my circulation until little heartbeats thrummed in my fingertips, then he let go.
Sighing heavily, he stared broodingly at the ceiling.
I kneeled beside him, afraid, anxious, and most of all, burning with curiosity. It wasn’t just me blanking out the past. Kill had done the same thing.
Slowly, I placed my hands into the bowl of warm water, squeezing the flannel free of excess water. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” I shook the cloth out and placed it over the dried blood on his stomach.
His eyes flared at the warmth. He looked up, locking gazes. “You’re the strangest girl.”
Girl.
Not woman.
Why in that moment did I really want him to think of me as a woman?
He’d seen me naked. He’d been affected. Hadn’t he?
His attention flickered between my legs, where the T-shirt did little to hide the nakedness beneath. He groaned quietly, masking it as pain, but something inside reacted. Something primal.
My eyes shot to his groin. The flaccidness had given way to something firmer, his poor blood-deprived body making an attempt to send supplies south.
I shouldn’t be so pleased, but a small smile tugged my mouth. “At least we know you’ll probably survive.”
He looked down, anger in his eyes, then wry amusement replaced it. He half smiled. “Guess it’s good news for everyone.”
Shyness crept over me, and I bent my head, rubbing the damp cloth over his bruised and dirty torso, slowly cleaning him.
Silence fell between us, but it wasn’t awkward. More like restful… peaceful.
Minutes passed as I transformed his dirty flesh to pink cleanliness.
Swirling the cloth in the bowl, I wrung it out and washed his left leg, studying his tattoo closely.
Arthur cleared his throat. “You’ve asked your fair share of questions of me. It’s my turn. What’s your name?”
My hands stilled on his kneecap.
Name?
I closed my eyes, searching deep within for something. A headache bloomed, shoving me backward, slamming a locked door in my face.
Returning to cleaning, I whispered, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I shrugged. “I don’t remember anything apart from waking up in the van before you tore my blindfold off.”
“Nothing?” His voice was part amazement, part incredulousness. “I thought you were making that shit up.”
I shook my head, once again cleaning out the cloth. The water was now grey and stained with crimson. “I wish, then I might have the answers I need and understand what I’m still doing here.”
Kill clenched his jaw. “Guess I have your crap memory to thank for being alive, then.”
Shifting to the other side of his body, I ran the material over his right leg, my eyes never leaving his tattoo. It looked old. Slightly faded in color but the lines were sharp and well drawn.
“What does it mean?”
He sucked in a breath, immediately going on the defensive. “What does yours mean?”
I sat back on my heels. “I just told you, I can’t remember anything.”
“Well, the price of knowing my ink is telling me the story of yours. And since that seems like a price you can’t pay…”
“You’re that protective of your design?”
“Aren’t you?”
We seethed.
My chest rose and fell beneath the T-shirt. Arthur’s muscles stood out, while blood blazed around his wound.
Finally, I bowed my head, resuming my cleaning. “Fine.”
“You have an accent. Do you remember if you lived overseas?” he pried, dispelling the animosity between us. It was odd to think that only an hour ago we’d threatened to kill each other. Now he was mostly naked and permitting me to wash him. In some ways, even though he would deny it, he trusted me. And in a way I couldn’t deny or explain, I trusted him.
“No,” I murmured, cleaning the last of the dirt from his chest. Rinsing the cloth, I hovered over his face. “May I?”
He tensed, then slowly nodded.
With infinitesimal gentleness, I pressed the cloth against his cheek, cleaning away the mud and blood and hints of battle. Small scratches were visible, now the grime had been removed. His cheek was split slightly from a punch to his face, and a small tear in his ear would heal. Apart from the stab wound in his shoulder, he looked surprisingly untouched.
I bit my lip, concentrating as I wiped carefully below his eyes and up to his forehead. His long hair stained the tiles and towel below.
“I need to be able to call you something,” he murmured as I ran the cloth ever so delicately along his jaw.
I looked up, entrapped by his grassy gaze. “Give me something. Something you want me to call you.”
Buttercup.
I instantly dismissed the idea. That was treasured with my father. If I couldn’t remember him, it was the only thing I had. I didn’t want a man who seemed caring and normal one minute, then tyrannical and monstrous the next to own it.