Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“You think it was an accident?” he repeated dispassionately. I felt him retreating back to his usual sullen mood. “Well, we don’t have to do that again.”
“No. Not the kissing part. I…I think I wet myself.” I felt my eyes glass over with unshed tears. How humiliating. How utterly unbearable that this was how my first kiss had ended. “I hope it’s not blood. My panties are all wet. I need to check.”
He stared at me. In disbelief at first, then with something else altogether. Hunger, delight, and amusement.
I had a feeling he wanted to laugh again, and that made me furious. Even if he didn’t want this baby, that didn’t mean he needed to be happy about it. I pushed off his chest, scowling.
“This is serious. Where’s the restroom?”
“Gealach.” He scooped me up by the waist, spinning me once as though I was a child, in a moment of heartbreaking gentleness. “Nothing’s wrong with you. We got a little carried away and your body—your smart, healthy, functioning body—got itself ready in case we were going to have sex.”
“What do you mean?” I glowered. He put me down.
“Nothing is wrong with the baby or with you. Your body self-lubricates when it gets turned on, because your brain tells it you’re about to have sex. It’s natural.”
“Oh, thank God.” I collapsed against the wall, crossing myself. “I thought something was seriously wrong with me.”
“Get used to it, Gealach.” He pushed forward, leaning down to capture my mouth with another kiss. He held my face up, so I could see his lips when he spoke. “You’re going to be very wet for me, very often, and you’re going to love every fucking minute of it.”
_______
A few minutes later, we were in the lobby with Jace, who was hunched over a pile of paperwork.
Tiernan watched as Jace stamped his concealed-carry permit. Then my husband quietly slid my ID across the counter to Jace and jerked his chin toward it. “Process this one, too.”
Jace froze on the other end of the counter. His eyes landed on my birthdate, and his throat bobbed with a swallow.
“She’s, uhm…” He coughed into his fist nervously. “Not twenty-one yet.”
“You saying I can’t math, lad?” Tiernan raised a perfect eyebrow.
Jace rubbed at the back of his neck.
“Wh-what? No, man. Not at all. My bad. I’ll get that permit handled straight away.”
When we got into the car, I decided to needle him again. It was my favorite new pastime.
“Why wiseass?”
“Mm?” He twisted his Rolex on his wrist.
“My nickname. Why did you call me wiseass the first time we met, on the fountain?”
The night you almost killed me; I didn’t complete the sentence.
“Because,” he said slowly, “calling you hot ass didn’t seem appropriate at the time.”
I grinned as I stared out the window, watching the scenery wilting as we left the pretty parts of New York and entered Hunts Point.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
The last time Tiernan had seen the sun was ninety-six days, three hours, and fourteen minutes ago.
Just as well, as he’d always preferred the moon.
The moon was a constant. It appeared every night, be it winter or summer, providing him with the kind of stability the pesky sun never could.
And it was beautiful. Pale and glowing in the ocean of darkness.
The moon was his friend. His assurance that no matter what, something bright waited in the gloominess.
He was lying in his cot next to his sister. Tierney was fast asleep, wrapped in both their blankets. He always gave her his.
“Does it ever get any warmer?” a heavily accented voice asked to his right.
Tiernan slowly turned his head to detect its source. A man in his late sixties, pale and malnourished, shivering under his quilt. He wasn’t going to make it to the end of the month. Tiernan had seen people like him come and go. He was usually the one tasked with scraping them onto a gurney and dumping them in an unmarked grave.
“Niet,” Tiernan said simply.
And then, because he was curious—because he’d always been curious about the outsiders who came there—he asked, “How did you get here?”
“Prisoner of war, you could say.” The stranger sat straighter in his cot, his back flat against the wall. “I am an American. I was dumb enough to steal Igor’s shipment. Name’s Michael.”
“Tiernan.”
“Doesn’t sound too Russian.” Michael crumpled his rather ugly face.
“It’s not.”
“Do you speak English?”
“Niet.”
Silence. Somebody moaned at them to shut up. Tiernan ignored the plea. Alex was away for Novy God, probably eating caviar in front of a crackling fire.
“Do you want to?” Michael asked.
Tiernan considered his question. It would be good to know English so he could communicate with his family when he and Tierney escaped. He had every intention of doing that. But English would be useless short-term.
“Igor speaks English,” Tiernan said after a while. “I wouldn’t be able to communicate under his nose.”