Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her huddled in that corner, trembling like a wounded animal. And when the water struck his back, he remembered the hideous moments when he’d been that terrified.
Then his memory jumped to the way her breath had caught at the sight of his scars. The scars he’d shown her.
Not by accident.
Not through carelessness.
But also not for any reason he understood.
Nick had inevitably seen what he’d tried to hide as a boy.
Myrtle was the only reason his scars hadn’t healed worse than the mangled wreckage they were. She’d been the one to care for him when his flesh was still raw and ripped open, forcing him to accept that he couldn’t heal on his own.
A handful of doctors had seen his body over the years. But that was before he had the money to hire private practitioners who took orders from him rather than the other way around.
No one else saw him so exposed.
He avoided mirrors, changed in private, kept his back to the wall whenever possible. The scars mapped a history he refused to speak aloud, a story written in raised ridges and cigarette burns that he had spent two decades trying to bury.
And yet he had stood there, shirtless, meeting her haunting eyes in the mirror with his own haunted past—daring her to say something.
Why?
The question circled through his mind like a vulture, the longer he dwelled on it, the more his discipline withered away. Long after the chill had left his bones, he’d waited under the water for his hard-on to go away.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary for his body to need release, but the circumstances were far from ideal. She was only a few feet away—a fact that somehow made his condition worse.
The more he considered her proximity and the defiant way she held his stare as he bared his body, the harder his cock pulsed.
Silk. Grey and wet. That tight little nipple. Those delicate cheekbones. Her milky skin.
So still. So unthreatening.
He’d never wanted to touch something as much as he had in that moment.
And she caught him. The look in her eyes filled with stark accusation. He knew that look well.
So he touched himself—hidden only by a stone partition as she bathed naked in the tub just a short distance away. Where were her hands? What did the soap feel like as it glided over her porcelain skin. Was she thinking of him? Picturing him at that same time?
Was she disgusted?
He came with a swallowed grunt of pained pleasure, squeezing his cock with a punished grip meant to inflict pain. He deserved her disgust. What kind of revolting monster got aroused at the sight of another person’s pain?
Drying himself with rote efficiency, he avoided his reflection, planning to go straight to the dressing room. But his steps halted the moment he set eyes on her again.
Small and soaked to the bone, weeping as if in indescribable pain.
How had this happened? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He never should have gotten this close. But here they were.
When she looked up, startled by his thoughtless scrutiny, her cheeks flushed red and she tried in vain to wipe her tears away. He’d mumbled some lame excuse and ran out of there, like a frightened animal.
Shoving his garment bag aside, he rummaged through his clothes with more force than necessary, searching for answers that didn’t exist in the cedar-lined closet.
Black wool emerged without a wrinkle, three pieces tailored to his frame with the precision of a second skin. He laid each component across the velvet bench and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror.
His hands had steadied, moving with practiced ease, reaching for the crisp white shirt and slipping his arms through the sleeves. The cotton whispered against his scarred skin, cool and familiar, as he worked each button through its hole without fumbling. Without shaking.
The trousers came next, smoky charcoal that matched the waistcoat flawlessly. The silk backing slid over his shirt like water. Six buttons, each one secured with the mechanical precision of ritual. This was armor. This was control. The costume of a man who commanded rooms and ruined empires, not the shivering wreck who had carried a half-naked woman through the rain.
He shrugged into the jacket and tugged the lapels straight, watching his reflection transform. Broad shoulders squared beneath fine wool. A tapered waist and lean muscle that spoke of discipline rather than vanity. Every line clean, every seam sharp, every trace of vulnerability buried beneath layers of bespoke tailoring.
He left cufflinks in their case and adjusted his ring against his knuckle. In the mirror, a familiar stranger stared back at him as his expression shifted into a practiced mask of illegibility. He took comfort in the cold, blank eyes of the unreadable face staring back.
Underestimated by design. Respected by default. Powerful beyond measure. Back to being a man who hosted feasts and hunted giants and never let anyone close enough to see the ruins beneath the suit.