Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I wonder if I’ll give it to him.
I wonder if he’ll live long enough to finish the entire leg.
I peer up at him, finding his head tipped back, breathing slow, and eyes lowered, hooded, savoring his view.
His view of me.
Adrenaline floods my circulation, and my dick gives a happy little deranged kick.
He doesn’t move immediately, his gaze fixed on mine. Unsettling. Then he rises, naked and semi-hard, and steps to the full-length mirror.
The man has no respect for modesty.
I avert my gaze from his tight, chiseled ass and focus on cleaning my workstation.
“Christ.” He rests his good hand over his groin, holding his cock out of the way as he examines his new ink in the mirror. “You saw what I am, and you still made it beautiful. You’re part of me now, Strakh.”
“Yeah, you can cancel my subscription on that.”
“She’ll see this.” He turns his leg left and right, studying it from every angle, his eyes glittering darkly. “And she’ll know it was you.”
“Stay away from her.”
He would have to be nude for Dove to see it, and that will never happen.
Pivoting, he ambles toward me and invades my space. A menacing allure radiates from him, drawing me and repelling me as his voice drops a sinister whisper against my lips. “Make me.”
My body screams, Fuck yes, as I mutter, “Hard pass.”
With an unsettling smile, he dresses slowly, one-handed, holding my gaze hostage until he’s fully clothed.
I give the station one last wipe, grab my hoodie, and sling my satchel over my shoulder. No ceremony. No lingering. I’m done bleeding into this room.
“We can resume the leg in two or three weeks.” Or never. I reach for the door.
“Tomorrow. Same time. We’ll start the lower leg. And the day after that. And every day until it’s done.” He doesn’t ask. He decides.
Idiot.
“You have an open wound on your thigh. Not to mention a broken wrist. You need time to heal.”
“You heard me.”
“Yep. Now hear me. If you push it, you’ll blow out the lines. Ink will migrate. The whole thing will heal like shit, and you’ll be stuck with a smeared jaguar that looks like it lost a bar fight.” I let that sink in. “I’m good, Rath, but I’m not God. Let your body catch up before your obsession does.”
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
“You want to lecture someone about first aid, find a Boy Scout. I’ll be here tomorrow.” He disappears into the back room, leaving me alone with lingering dread, fascination, and a realization I can’t deny.
Jag Rath isn’t finished with me, not by a long shot, and I’m not mad about it.
Outside, the sky is in full meltdown. Slick sheets pour down the alley, drowning everything.
My hoodie clings to my shoulders, useless against the cold. I let it soak through, needing it to rinse off the last eight hours. The smell of him. The heat of him. The sickness he’s spreading.
As the mechanic shop emerges ahead, Dove’s guards spot me immediately. Before I reach the entrance, they step from their parked SUV, eyes scanning the shadows. Ex-military, both of them. Clean cut. Necks as thick as my thigh.
“Evening, Mr. Strakh.” Jasper approaches, blinking rain from his eyes.
“Anything?”
“Uneventful, sir.”
That tracks. Jag’s been glued to my hip all day like a parasite with a hard-on.
“Did she eat?” I ask.
“No, sir. She hasn’t left the premises.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
They nod and strike off toward their car.
Warmth bleeds into my skin as I slip into the garage bays, breathing in the scent of gasoline, motor oil, and sweat.
Fluorescent lights glow over the central lift. No music. No shouting. No clanking wrenches. Everyone’s gone.
Except her.
She doesn’t acknowledge me as she rolls past.
On skates.
Old-school quad skates, black leather, red laces. That’s not the only thing that’s different. She wears striped knee-high socks, mini denim shorts that should be illegal, and a brand-new tool belt slung low on her hips like she’s about to throw hands at a 1970s roller derby.
Love the look, but where the hell did it come from? It sure as hell didn’t fit in her backpack.
When I left her on the island this morning, she wore the same clothes she wore yesterday. I planned to fix that tonight and take her shopping. Build her a closet full of armor. Stuff that screams Don’t touch me in five different languages and still makes people stare. Badass shit for a badass girl.
But nope. She beat me to it.
Except…
She hasn’t left the premises.
The only explanation? She built a time machine, robbed a punk rock pin-up, and said, Yeah, this’ll do.
She weaves between car skeletons, skating slowly, effortlessly, one hand dragging along the top of a parked engine.
Blue hair piles atop her head in a messy twist, and a grease-smudged flannel hangs unbuttoned halfway, revealing a thin tank top beneath.