Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
“I had to take a call from Calixte.”
“And?”
“He’s disturbed.”
Eden had to push herself up on her elbows and take a closer look at her husband’s gorgeous face—oh, so she was right. He had been smiling when he said that.
“Zacharie is disturbed, and you’re, er, happy about it?”
“How long have you known Zacharie?”
“Almost a year.”
“And if I were to ask you what kind of person is he, how would you describe him?”
Eden tried to recall everything she remembered about Calixte’s friend. “He’s...extremely skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and his goal is to always finish quickly. He has unnerving accuracy with firearms, especially with a sniper. It’s almost as if he can read his target’s mind, and he knows—” Eden stopped talking when she saw the way her husband’s smile had turned into a smirk, and her own lips formed a rueful smile. “I wasn’t describing him as a person, was I?”
“You were describing him as a killing machine.”
Eden winced, and Calixte laughed.
“It’s alright, mon ange. That is how he is. Because it’s all he knows.”
“And that’s why you think Zacharie being ‘disturbed’ is a good thing?”
“It’s the first real emotion he has shown,” Calixte said simply.
“So you’re saying he’s like a blank slate this whole time—”
Calixte shook his head. “No, not a blank slate. Zacharie would be more like a painting sealed in black lacquer. And the girl is the only one who can pare it back, layer by layer, for both of them.” Because another thing he suspected was that Zacharie himself did not know who he was, if all the violence in his life was taken away.
In the meantime, Eden was biting her lip in a mixture of embarrassment and adoration. She just loved it so, so much whenever she was granted a rare glimpse of this side of her husband, and he would go all dark and poetic—
A startled gasp escaped her lips when Calixte suddenly rolled her to her back.
“Something on your mind, Mrs. Romano?”
Uh oh.
Eden’s cheeks warmed under her husband’s gleaming gaze. “I—I—”
“Want your husband so very bad?” Calixte’s tone was wicked and teasing. He fully expected his wife to also deny this with stammers and blushes—
“Oui?”
But when she admitted it in the cutest and shyest way there was—
Comme je l’aime. How I love her.
No words were spoken for the next hour, no sound emerging except for the whimpers of a woman who was very well loved by her husband.
Chapter Six
WHO KNEW IT WOULD BE this hard to pretend you aren’t crushing on someone?
It’s been four days since I woke up in this mansion with a bullet wound, and every single one of those days has been an exercise in torture. My side hurts whenever I make the wrong move, but it’s my heart that I’m worried about. While it’s not quite broken, but it’s not quite okay either, and it feels less and less okay whenever I’m in his presence.
He checks my bandages every morning. His fingers brush my skin, clinical and precise, and my traitorous body shivers every single time. I’ve memorized the rhythm of it now: the cool sting of antiseptic, the careful press of fresh gauze, the way his palm flattens against my ribcage to smooth the tape into place. His hand is so large it nearly spans my entire side. I try not to think about that. I fail.
He brings me meals on trays that look like they belong in a five-star restaurant, and I eat while staring out the window at the rolling hills and eucalyptus groves because looking at him is dangerous. The view is stunning, all golden California light spilling across manicured gardens and distant mountains, but I barely see any of it. I’m too busy not seeing him.
He asks me questions in that flat, clipped voice of his, and I answer in monosyllables because if I let myself talk, I might say something stupid like...
Why do you have to be so beautiful when you think I’m so ugly?
Why do you have to be so kind when you’re just going to hand me off to someone else?
Why can’t you want me the way I want you?
So I’ve developed a coping mechanism.
Every time my heart does that stupid little flip, every time I catch myself staring at the way his sweater stretches across his shoulders or the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking, I mentally chant my new mantra.
He thinks I’m ugly.
He wants to marry me off.
He thinks I’m ugly.
He wants to marry me off.
I know he didn’t exactly describe me that way, but it means the same thing, right?
And I’m...I’m honestly bothered that he thinks he has to marry me off. Since when did the FBI double as a matchmaking agency? Or maybe this is his former-bad-guy days coming to the fore? I mean...I’ve read my fair share of mafia romances over the years, and everyone in that world thinks an arranged marriage solves everything. So maybe—