Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
The man is a work of art. A chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, five o’clock shadow on his jaw. His face would make the most handsome man in Hollywood weep.
I walk to him, my hands tentative as I cup his stubbled cheeks. Gazing firmly into his blue irises, I tell him something I’m not sure he’s heard before. “You’re beautiful.”
“Beauty is skin deep, Bree. Don’t let the charade fool you. I’m a monster.”
“Maybe, but you’re my monster. I want to know you, Mikhail. I don’t want you to hide from me. You don’t have to.”
“I’ll pick you up after work.”
And with that, I’m alone in the dark storage closet with a full heart and a satiated pussy.
Chapter Twelve
Mikhail
Bree places her finished plate in the dishwasher before turning and circling her arms around my waist. A hug. She’s hugging me. It’s odd for a man in his thirties to be confused by such a simple gesture. But simple touches filled with care are foreign to me.
“Dinner was lovely. Thank you.”
I tug her toward me. I feel like I’ve all the riches in the world because she’s in my arms. “The company is even better.”
She tilts her head and gazes at me, her eyes full of compassion and warmth. “It’s time to spill the beans.”
I appreciate her light nature in approaching a serious subject, but I understand that what I’m about to tell her may change how she sees me forever.
I kiss the top of her head and take her hand, walking her to the couch. “This is hard for me. My best friends haven’t even heard the entire story. I’m not sure I ever want to tell them.”
“Whatever you tell me, Mikhail, it stays between us.”
“And I want the woman I love to really see me.”
She clasps her heart. “You love me?”
“I’m not sure I fully comprehend what love is, but I’m assuming that’s what this is. You’re my breath, Bree. The idea of being without you is enough to stop my black and broken heart. You’re the moon in my perpetual darkness, the beacon of light that gives me hope.”
I shift on the couch, pulling her onto my lap. “Do you know what a death rattle is? It’s the last sound someone makes before dying. A futile attempt to swallow, cough, or clear saliva from one’s throat. I have been running to and from the sound my entire life, living as a ghost so the sound could never touch me. Now I’d welcome that same nightmare with open arms as long as you’re safe from it. I was dead before you, Bree. You gave me life, and I’ll fucking burn the earth before I’d let anything ever happen to you. I love you, Bree, because that’s the only word that makes sense now, my heart only beats for you. I love you so fucking much, I can’t see straight.”
Bree
My heart soars. They didn’t make that up. Hearing those words from Mikhail is like winning the jackpot in the biggest lotto the world has ever known.
I brush my hand along his cheek. The man is beautiful without the damn mask. Not that I mind the mask. It’s hot, and I’ll be asking him to wear it sometimes. But sitting here, staring at his face—a face he only shows me—does something to me I didn’t think was possible. “I love you, too.”
“You might not love me once you hear the whole story.”
“I’ll love you,” I reassure him.
“My father killed my father when I was ten.”
My hand flies to my mouth to conceal the gasp trying to escape my lips.
“I had no idea he was my father at the time. My stepfather, I guess, raised me. He was a good man. Maybe under him, I could have been something better. We were living in America at the time. We’d fled Russia. It was hard starting over. People rarely understand how hard it is for immigrants and their children. Children usually adapt, but the parents suffer. There’s always this sense of not belonging, no matter what you do. A notion that you’re never home, just a permanent tourist. It’s even harder when you don’t have money. We were poor. We always had the basics—food, clothes, and shelter—but there was no money for anything else. But I had a lot of love. My parents were kind, honest people who truly cared for me.” He waves his hand around the room. “I’d give up all this just to see my mother’s smile again.”
I place my head on his chest, sensing it will probably be easier on him to speak if he isn’t forced to stare at me.
“We were setting up for a movie night, a small indulgence my parents allowed us to have. Nothing grand by any means, but it was something I always looked forward to. That was when my mother rushed me into a closet to hide me, and they killed both my parents, brutally, without mercy, and took me. I was taken back to Russia. Back to a man who murdered my mother because she took something that belonged to him. He didn’t want me because I held value for him. He wanted me because it boosted his ego. So, for the next twenty-ish years, I worked for a man who was my biological father but treated me as a trained mercenary. A cold, heartless killer who murdered on his demand.”