Page 88 of King of the Cage

GIADA

Iwoke up in Bran O’Connor’s apartment for the second time in as many days.

I had the feeling that I’d slept deeply. There had been no nightmares chasing me. My mind had been empty. Peaceful, like I’d laid down something very heavy, for the first time in a long time. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

Bran’s arm was tightly slung across my waist, holding me in the protective cage of his embrace. Outside, the dull daylight had given way to a heavy gray sky, and snow swirled past the windows. A small fire crackled in the grate in the corner.

It was more comforting than I would have expected.

I wriggled around, trying not to dislodge Bran’s arm. After several excruciating minutes of shifting around, I was face-to-face with him. His features were softened by sleep. It was usually quite the intense experience just staring at him. His gaze was always hungry, his expression ferocious, or joking. He flitted from one strong emotion to another.

Now, he was still, his cheeks slack. It really wasn’t fair for someone so big and strong and capable to also be so damn beautiful. His dark-blond eyelashes were long, and this close, I could see his eyebrows were light brown. He had a scar on his cheek, and his beard looked soft. Tattoos dotted his neck and chest. He’d made himself a canvas, and by God, he was art at this point. I leaned up on my elbow to examine the designs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, only low-slung black pants.

I studied the designs on his chest, drawn to the design over his heart like I always was. It was a strange design, with straight intersecting lines that resembled tallies. There was something precise about those careful vertical lines, slashing through the one long horizonal one.

“It’s an ogham tattoo,” a deep voice rumbled.

I jerked my eyes up to Bran’s face, to find his green-eyed gaze fixed on me. Was this guy ever actually asleep?

“And that is?” I asked, my voice rough like I’d been screaming over loud music for hours. I felt oddly self-conscious under his intent gaze, like I was naked. Emotionally naked, I supposed. He’d seen me, under my sass, polish, and attitude. He’d seen it all.

“Ogham’s an alphabet, so this is a word.” His voice was sinful, a deep, lilting rumble.

“What does it say?” I asked. My cheeks felt hot.Am I blushing?

“Beochaoineadh,” Bran murmured, his voice stroking over the Irish word.

“And? What does it mean?”

He pondered my question. “Beware of the tattoo parlor after a pub crawl.” His lip tilted up in a grin, breaking the tension between us.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” I pushed myself up, getting ready to sit up and get the hell out of there.

Bran’s arm tightened on my waist, sending me falling back to the mattress.

“Hey!”

“It means ‘living lament,’” he told me.

“Living lament,” I repeated, my heartbeat picking up as his hand fastened on my hip and squeezed.

He pulled me closer by the hip and lifted one heavy leg over mine, trapping me in place.

Bran nodded. “It’s an elegy for the living,” he murmured and brought his hand up to my face, stroking the backs of his fingers along my jaw and tucking my hair behind my ear.

It was such an unexpectedly tender movement; I didn’t know how to react to it. My body didn’t have the same problem. My nipples hardened into points, and my skin flushed.

Fuck, how was this man so effortlessly attractive? He should come with a health warning.

“Why did you get it?” I asked, wetting my suddenly dry lips.

“To remember someone who’s not dead but is forever gone. My living lament… a keen for a lost soul.”

I swallowed, and his gaze drifted down to my neck. He leaned in and pressed his lips against my pulse point. It hammered madly.His hot breath sent pleasure creeping across my skin from where he’d kissed me. He licked up my neck and pressed a line of kisses along my jaw.

“What are you doing?” I asked dumbly.

“What does it look like?”

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