Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“How many guards are there?”
“Three, sometimes four. They’re these big military guys. Or ex-military, I don’t know. They just have that look. I don’t know why, but they all have that look. It’s like witness protection, but not, because he needs special care and I can’t leave my job. I don’t want to leave my job. They said they could move me, have me disappear, but I don’t want to disappear. My patients need me, plus my parents. What would I do with my parents? Never see or call them again? No, that’s crazy. So they disappeared the vegetable, the cucumber, the broccoli—”
“Sara, hush.” Fingers press against my mouth, stopping the stream of words, and the face moves even closer. “You can stop now. It’s over,” the sexy mouth murmurs, and I open my lips, sucking in those fingers. I can taste salt and skin, and I want more, so I swirl my tongue around the fingers, feeling the roughness of the calluses and the blunt edges of the short nails. It’s been so long since I’ve touched someone, and my body heats from this small taste, from the look in those silver eyes.
“Sara…” The accented voice is lower now, deeper and softer. It’s less of a megaphone and more of a sensual echo, like music done on a synthesizer. “You don’t want to go there, ptichka.”
Oh, but I do. I want to go there badly. I keep swirling my tongue around the fingers, and I watch the gray eyes darken, the pupils visibly expanding. It’s a sign of arousal, I know, and it makes me want to do more. It makes me want to kiss those sculpted lips, rub my cheek against that bristly jaw. And the hair, that thick dark hair. Would it feel soft or springy? I want to know, but I can’t move my hands, so I just take the fingers deeper into my mouth, making love to them with my lips and tongue, sucking on them like they’re candy.
“Sara.” The voice is thick and husky, the face tight with barely restrained hunger. “You have to stop, ptichka. You’ll regret this tomorrow.”
Regret? Yes, I probably will. I regret everything, so many things, and I release the fingers to say so. But before I can utter a word, the fingers pull away from my lips, and the face moves farther away.
“Don’t leave me.” The cry is plaintive, like that of a clingy child. I want more of that human touch, that connection. My head feels like a bag of rocks, and I ache all over, especially near my neck and shoulders. My belly is cramping too. I want someone to brush my hair and massage my neck, to hold me and rock me like a baby. “Please, don’t leave.”
Something resembling pain crosses the man’s face, and I feel the cold prick of the needle in my neck again.
“Goodbye, Sara,” the voice murmurs, and I’m gone, my mind floating away like a fallen leaf.
Chapter 4
Sara
The headache. I first become aware of the headache. My skull feels like it’s splitting into pieces, the waves of pain a drumbeat in my brain.
“Dr. Cobakis… Sara, can you hear me?” The female voice is soft and gentle, but it fills me with dread. There’s worry in that voice, mixed with restrained urgency. I hear that tone in the hospital all the time, and it’s never good.
Trying not to move my throbbing skull, I pry my eyelids open and blink spasmodically at the bright light. “What… where…” My tongue is thick and unwieldy, my mouth painfully dry.
“Here, sip this.” A straw is placed near my mouth, and I latch on to it, greedily sucking in the water. My eyes are starting to adjust to the light, and I can make out the room. It’s a hospital, but not my hospital, judging from the unfamiliar decor. Also, I’m not where I usually am. I’m not standing by someone’s hospital bed; I’m lying in one.
“What happened?” I ask hoarsely. As my mind clears, I become aware of nausea and an array of aches and pains. My back feels like one giant bruise, and my neck is stiff and sore. My throat feels raw too, as though I’ve been screaming or vomiting, and when I lift my hand to touch it, I find a thick bandage on the right side of my neck.
“You were attacked, Dr. Cobakis,” a middle-aged black woman says softly, and I recognize her voice as the one who spoke earlier. She’s dressed in nursing scrubs, but somehow she doesn’t look like a nurse. When I stare at her blankly, she clarifies, “In your house. There was a man. Do you remember anything about that?”
I blink, straining to make sense of that confusing statement. I feel like a giant cotton ball has been stuffed into my brain, alongside the beating drum. “My house? Attacked?”