Page 146 of Born for Lace

No one in.

No one out.

Thick arms rest over his chest, and his third eyelid is closed, the first-light haze shimmering along the pearl-like surface. Not awake, but not asleep either—in a predatory state that is both stunning and terrifying.

I study him, my gaze following a path down his torso and catching on the new scar tissue. My heart twists.

I kneel beside him.

Hesitantly, I reach out my hand and touch the smooth surface, inhaling when I feel the heat from his body. What did they do to you? Were you there the entire time? All five months?

Did they break you, Lagos?

That last thought comes unbidden, and I wish it away because somewhere deep inside me, I know he is… Heisdamaged, but I still want him.

A large, warm hand clamps around my wrist, holding it hostage. “Are you real?”

I gasp, gazing up from his mutilated torso to his blazing black eyes.

“Yes,” I whisper.

His free hand touches my face, ardently tracing the curves. “This face…”

I cover his hand with mine, being this close to him, being caught in his gaze, possessed by his hands. In love.

“Things I like,” he murmurs, soft but deep, “this face.”

“You think I’m pretty?” I ask.

His eyes narrow. “Yes.” That one-word grunt brings the brightest smile to my face, one I feel everywhere.

“Pretty but plain,” I agree.

“Plain?” He stares, his eyes lost for a moment, peaceful, the steel-grey rings returning as his pupils shrink. “Plain doesn’t consume. I would happily murder men and women for each one of your freckles, little flower.”

I suck a sharp breath in and feel the jagged edges of his gruesome words. “I don’t want you to murder anyone for me.”

The pause that follows burns like a flame consuming all the air between us.

His expression hardens again. “Do you have your taser?”

I look at my wrist, still banded by his fist. “I’m not carrying that around.”

“You will.” He unwraps his fingers, freeing me. “Go get it now.”

“What happened?” I touch a large wound, the smooth membrane rolling over his strong muscles. “They skinned you. They hurt you. Let me kiss you.”

He snarls, and before I can respond, he rises to his feet, dragging me up with him.

“Lagos!”

Please don’t be like this.

Manhandling me into the bathroom, he positions me in front of the dusty mirror. His chest meets the back of my head, his body lording behind me.

“Look,” he orders.

“I can see,” I say, but lift my chin, wanting to gaze up at him.

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