Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
I snap my eyes shut so fast a tear springs down my cheek when a thick Russian accent says, “You think they would have fixed that by now.”
“Alek.” He balks when I throw my arms around his neck to hug him tight, but he eventually returns my hug, if not a little hesitant. “What are you doing here? Why are you in Italy?”
He props his shoulder on the doorframe far too casually. “Restocking. Supplies get low when you voyage from one butt-lit city to the next.” My nose screws up like a rabbit when he traces the red tinge near the spaghetti strap of my shirt. “You really should have gone for the SPF 50+. The sun out here is brutal, especially for your pasty white skin.”
“What?”
He laughs at the reply that would usually have had me smacked over the head with a broom before explaining, “Your sunscreen is SPF30. You need SPF50. I’ll get some shipped to your room tonight. Room 8212, right?”
I talk despite my suddenly scratchy throat. “You know I’m on a cruise?”
“Of course I do.” My heart whacks against my ribs when he says with a grin, “He knows everything when it comes to you.”
He can’t be referencing Kirill. He was sentenced for so long they may as well throw away his key. He’s never getting out alive.
My voice is almost a sob when I ask, “Who knows everything?”
I would give anything to be brave enough to whack him in the gut when he replies, “You know who.” And he knows it. His smile exposes this. “It’s the same man who waits in his office for hours on end every time we anchor in case a special delivery arrives—”
If he says anymore, I don’t hear him. I sprint like the wind. Maybe the Russian whispers I hear in the wind each night aren’t my imagination. Maybe his smell isn’t, either.
My race only ends when a voice I’ve only heard in my head for the past year and a half sounds through my ears. “Think before you leap, маленький ягненок. My lack of greed was a one-time-only deal.” I gulp in a rugged breath when the big black chair behind Ghost’s desk spins around.
It is him.
It is Ghost.
The man I’ve been grieving for over a year. His dress shirt is undone to the desired third button, his hands are resting on his pants-covered thighs, and his head is unnecessarily angled. “If you step over that threshold, come hell or high water, I will make you mine.”
My heart pains for him when he leans forward enough for the shadow to move off his face. His new scar is extensive. It takes up a majority of his right cheek and is circular in its pattern.
It appears to be a bullet hole that mercifully lodged an inch or two below his brain.
The racing heart I’ve been seeking for years returns stronger than ever when Ghost mutters, “And I will never let you go again.”
His possessive tone makes me dizzy, but it won’t stop me from conveying my shock. “How? You got shot in the chest three times. I saw you go down.”
“Alek.” He curses a Russian swear word under his breath before he pushes back from his desk, walks around it, then plops his backside on the edge closest to me. He is still several feet away from me, but the tension is crackling with electricity. His new scars don’t hinder his appeal. He is a ruggedly handsome man who could set any woman’s pulse on fire. “He doesn’t trust anyone, much less the Yurys. He made me suit up just in case they weren’t playing fair, and Watermelon Head is a fucking shit shot.”
“Thank God.”
My response pleases him, and for once, he doesn’t have to hide his appreciation. “I came to you as soon as I could. I wiped away the tears you shed for me.” The twitch impinging his top lip piques my curiosity. “Struggled not to help you over the line when you dreamed about me.” His smile drops into a snarl. “And I killed the men who grabbed you too hard or made you cry.” He unshadows part of his face when he stares me in the eyes and murmurs, “I worked endlessly to get you and Lera out. You just didn’t know it.”
“Why?” The comments about him coming to me when I was asleep make sense—he often drugged me—but the rest I am lost about. “Why send Alek to calm Kirill when Grayson’s presence frustrated him? Why didn’t you come yourself? And why did you let me believe you were dead?”
He flips my interrogation on its head by commencing his own. “Why did you walk onto this boat, маленький ягненок? There are five in this harbor alone. Six if you include the hideous one I’ve been tailing the past two weeks.”