Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I wouldn’t have become the current version of myself.
If I turn back right now, I won’t have to relive that experience.
I won’t have to feel the cracks in my armor that I thought was impenetrable.
A noise comes from my right, and I turn the knob, then slip inside, locking the door after me.
The soft glow of a standing lamp illuminates the room.
His room.
Haphazard, chaotic, with clothes thrown on chairs, books open, pens scattered on the desk. He’s drawn a bullet on the top corner of his notebook, like a child who needs pictures woven in with text.
Removing the mask, I scan my surroundings. There are a few dismantled electronic devices on the desk, exposed wires hooked into strange makeshift cubes. A few screws and pins are scattered about in a complete mess.
A rough groan draws my attention to Yulian, who’s sprawled across the bed.
One arm draped over his head, T-shirt rumpled and untucked, jeans riding low on his hips. The serpentine mask lies beside him, glinting faintly in the low light as if the snakes will come out and devour him alive.
His thick brows are relaxed in sleep, but they still carry that arrogant slant. Lips parted slightly, full and flushed. Jaw sharp enough to cut someone.
The shadows shift across his face with every breath he takes, casting fleeting ghosts down the veins in his throat and collarbone. There’s a small scar on the side of his cheek I hadn’t noticed before. A fresh one across his knuckles. Another one peeking from where his shirt is lifted, on his abs, disappearing beneath the waist of his pants.
His body is always telling stories, and I have this urge to press my fingers against every line and make them speak.
There’s something obscene in the way he sleeps so unguarded, so alive.
I want to reach out and squash him. Slit his throat or choke him to death so he can no longer speak or threaten me or text me when he’s bored.
Just so he’ll…stop disrupting the balance of my life.
My hand reaches down, wrapping around his throat.
And it’s like I touched fire.
He’s not burning up, but something inside me is. A tingling sensation shoots up my arm and settles in the pit of my stomach with a thud.
I don’t squeeze.
Don’t move.
My thumb twitches against his steady pulse point.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
A wave of dizziness coils in my chest, climbing up my throat—just like it always does whenever the prick is near.
But it doesn’t stop there.
No.
It’s followed by a cocktail of feelings I can hardly fathom. Rage, pent-up emotions, and so many…regrets.
I don’t even know what the fuck I want to do with Yulian.
I don’t want to hurt him, not really. Or do I?
Actually, I do. Maybe if I shatter him to pieces, it’ll finally be over.
I squeeze his throat, my thumb and fingers sinking into his skin in one violent go.
His eyes flutter open, blinking slowly. If it were me, I’d reach for my gun now, shoot my assaulter between his eyes.
Not Yulian.
No.
Because his lips curl into a lazy smile. “Hmm, you’re in my dreams now, Mishka?”
My fingers tremble around his throat, and I squeeze harder, telling myself the only reason I’m shaking has to do with rage. “I told you not to call me that.”
“Pfft, that’s totally something you’d say. Dream scores five out of five for realism.” He clamps onto my forearm, his fingers biting into my skin, and a spark races through me, sharp and electric.
It’s like I’m a live wire.
Fucking shocked alive by his touch.
He yanks me off balance in one swift motion. I stumble forward, crashing against him, chest pressed to chest, legs tangled awkwardly on the bed.
My fingers are still around his neck, our faces inches away, his parted lips breathing into me, the smell of alcohol permeating my nostrils.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful.” His whispered words, almost sounding like he’s in awe, trace my skin like a shadowed curse.
An ancient one that’s impossible to undo.
It’s his eyes—they’re the source of the curse. The pools of blue and brown look darker, the rings surrounding them no longer there as his pupils dilate and his nostrils flare.
I’m so caught up in the little changes, in the feel of his heartbeat on mine, that it takes me a while to realize I’m breathing as harshly as he is.
Our exhalations twist between us, heavy as smoke.
Before I can put some much-needed distance between us, he lets out a choked puff of air. “God, I hate your face.”
Then he tilts his head, annihilating the last sliver of space between us, and our lips meet.
My eyes widen, my fingers trembling uncontrollably around his throat as he brushes his mouth on mine, sloppily, deliberately, his tongue peeking out to lick my lower lip before he bites down. His hand finds my hair, and he grabs a handful, pulling me toward him.