Page 14 of Guarded By the Phantom

“Baby, wake up,” I murmured, shaking her gently. “You’re shedding. Like a dog. And I hate having fur on my clothes.”

It would have been funny in any other circumstances, but as her nostrils barely flared with slow, shallow breaths, her skin growing even paler until it seemed silver, panic welled in my guts.

I tapped my comm set and sent a quick emergency signal for a Monster Security Agency doctor. They’d locate me at once and come here, which was perfect, because I would never trust ordinary paramedics with my principal.

Not after she was almost murdered.

My chest constricted with fury, mostly at myself. I let it happen. I should have been by her side, in her fucking bedroom if must be, and prevented it. And I definitely shouldn’t have underestimated the mind manipulator. They didn’t want tojusthumiliate her and shoot down her father’s campaign. They wanted to obliterate him and kill her in the process.

“Come on, doll,” I said, my voice tight. “Open those pretty eyes and tell me you’re all right. Maybe I can even catch them yet. Just wake up.”

She was draped over my lap, her upper body wedged against my arm, and I pressed her closer to free up my other hand. I almost slapped her cheek before I remembered the armor. Even a gentle slap might cut her skin, so I sighed and retracted the plates.

The carapace covering my hand moved in a rapid series of clicks. It was made of dozens of elements, thanks to which I could move each finger with full mobility. Now, these elements folded on top of one another, each of them a narrow, black plate, stacking on top of each finger and on the back of my hand in neat lines mimicking the bones underneath.

My palm was bare, the inner side completely devoid of armor. My skin was dark gray and soft, and I shivered involuntarily, feeling the wind slipping between my fingers.

I hadn’t been outside without full armor in ages, the only thing I occasionally took out being my dick, whether to piss or get it sucked.

Now, I hesitated, my naked palm hovering over the girl’s face. Her cheek was so smooth, her skin so young and plump. Her eyelashes were obscenely long, fanning luxuriously over her cheekbones. Her lips, so pale now, were thick and kissable.

“What,” I muttered. “The fu-aaaah. What the freak? Hm. Doesn’t have the same ring to it. What the he—heck. Ugh, I hate that freaking contract.”

Trying to come up with a satisfying replacement for my usual expressions distracted me from the fact I thought, ever so briefly, about kissing my principal while she was unconscious.I buried that thought, piling shitty memories on top of it, so I wouldn’t feel tempted to think it again.

Then I drew my arm back and slapped her hard with my naked palm. The slap rang out in the still garden. She jolted, gasping, and opened her eyes.

“Finally,” I muttered, hiding the flood of relief that gushed from my too-soft freaking heart. “What’s your name and how many fingers do you see?”

She blinked blearily, and I shoved my naked palm in front of her face to delay the inevitable—that is, her seeing me and freaking out. If I was lucky, I’d be able to assess her status before that happened.

“I’m… Barbara,” she said slowly with a confused frown. “I have a stupid hyphenated surname. Ashford-Kingsley. And… And why is your hand gray?”

I swallowed an unbecoming gasp when she reached up and trailed her fingers over my palm, her cute frown deepening as she explored my bare skin with featherlight touch.

It tickled, it itched, and worst of all, it made me want to ask her to keep doing it. Her fingers were soft and hesitant, and there was just something so guileless in the way she touched me. It was completely unlike the human women I got naked with, who touched me because they were drawn to my otherness and explored me with greedy fascination.

This… This was different. She didn’t know what I was, didn’t see my face yet, and so she was simply intrigued by the color of my skin.

When a shiver bolted down my back, settling in my hips, I snatched my hand away. Barbara looked up. Our eyes met.

I braced myself for her scream, for the expression of horror and disgust that would inevitably distort her face. But seconds ticked away, time pooling in a limbo around my knees buried in the cool grass, and she didn’t make a sound.

Finally, her forehead smoothed, her eyes opening wider with innocent curiosity.

“Oh. Am I dead?” she asked, watching me without a shadow of fear. “He made me fall, didn’t he? What a bastard. Did I break my neck?”

I should have corrected her at once, but I was too taken aback by her reaction.

“You’re taking it surprisingly well,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t death scare you?”

She sighed, briefly closing her eyes. “I don’t know. It just seems fitting. My life was never my own, and my death isn’t, either. I’m all out of fucks to give, you know? At least you’re pretty.”

I laughed in surprise, pressing my fingers to her neck to check her pulse. She was warm and soft, her blood thrumming gently under her skin.

“Pretty? Now I know you’re not fully in there. Take deep breaths while I call the guy by the gate so he lets the doctor in.”

“No, you are,” she said, raising her hand and hovering it over my cheek, the warmth of her skin just a whisper away from the bone of my face. I stopped breathing. “You have such a good structure. Those cheekbones and brow ridges are so symmetrical and prominent. If Michelangelo ever portrayed death, he’d make someone like you.”

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