Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
I can barely breathe, but can I risk admitting my current weakness to him?
His fingers are warm under my chin as he tilts my head up so our gazes collide. Wait…is that a hint of panic swirling in his? “You’re breathing like crap, so I’m guessing it has to do with—”
“My ribs,” I finish before he can guess. Trying to mask the pain isn’t going to work with him. “The one by the bed hit the side of my ribs with the sword, but I think they’re just bruised.” There hadn’t been that telltale snap that comes with broken bones.
“Must have been a dull sword.” He cocks a dark eyebrow. “Unless it has something to do with why you sleep in your leather vest.”
“Trust him,” Tairn demands.
“It’s not that easy.”
“It has to be for now.”
“It’s dragon-scale.” I lift my right arm and pivot slightly so he can see the gaping hole in my nightdress. “Mira made it for me. It’s why I’ve lived this long.”
He glances between our bodies, his mouth tensing before he nods once. “Ingenious, though I’d say there are multiple reasons for why you’ve made it this far.” Before I can argue that point, his gaze shifts to my throat and narrows at what I imagine has to be the purple imprint of a hand. “I should have killed him slower.”
“I’m fine.” I’m not.
His focus snaps back to my eyes. “Never lie to me.” He says it with such ferocity, bit out through gritted teeth, that I can’t help but nod in promise.
“It hurts,” I admit.
“Let me see.”
I open and shut my mouth twice. “Is that a request or a demand?”
“Your pick as long as I get to see if that fucker broke your ribs.” His hands curl into fists.
Two other men walk in through the open door, Garrick and Bodhi following closely after. They’re all…dressed. Fully clothed at—I glance at the clock—two a.m.
“Take those two, and we’ll get the last ones,” Garrick orders, and the others get to work, carrying the last of the bodies out through the door. I can’t help but notice they all have rebellion relics shimmering up their arms, but I keep the observation to myself.
“Thank you,” Xaden says, then flicks his hand and my door shuts with a soft click. “Now, let me see your ribs. We’re wasting time.”
I swallow, then nod. Better to know now if they’re broken anyway. I turn my back on him, but I can see his face in the full-length mirror as I shrug out of the billowing sleeves of my nightdress, holding the material above my breasts as it dips in the back to my waist. “You’ll have to—”
“I know how to handle a corset.” His jaw flexes once, and something that reminds me of raw hunger flitters across his expression before he locks it down, drawing my hair over my shoulder with surprising gentleness.
His fingers skim my bare skin and I suppress a shiver, locking my muscles so I don’t arch into his touch.
What the hell is wrong with me? There’s still blood on my floor and yet my breaths are tight for the entirely wrong reason as he makes quick work of the laces, starting at the bottom. He wasn’t lying. He absolutely knows his way around a corset.
“How the hell do you get yourself into this thing every morning?” he asks, clearing his throat as inch after inch of my back is exposed.
“I’m freakishly flexible. It’s part of the whole bones-snapping, joints-tearing thing,” I answer over my shoulder.
Our eyes meet, and warmth flutters through my stomach. The moment is gone as quickly as it came, and he pulls my armor apart, inspecting my right side. Gentle fingers stroke over the abused ribs, then prod carefully.
“You have one hell of a bruise, but I don’t think they’re broken.”
“That’s what I thought. Thank you for checking.” It should be awkward, but somehow it isn’t, even as he laces me back up, securing the ends.
“You’ll live. Turn around.”
I do, tugging my nightdress back over my shoulders, and he drops to his knees on the floor before me.
My eyes widen. Xaden Riorson is kneeling before me, his black hair at the perfect level for me to run my fingers through the thickness. It’s probably the only thing that’s soft about him. How many women have felt those strands between their fingers?
Why the hell do I care?
“You’re going to have to walk through the pain, and we have to do it fast.” He grabs a boot, then taps my foot. “Can you lift it up?”
I nod, lifting my foot. Then he robs me of every logical thought by putting on my boots and lacing them one at a time.
This is the same man who had no problems with my death just a few months ago, and my brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the different sides of him.