Page 20 of Lana Pecherczyk
“Bloody hell,” she croaked out. “This is real.”
She pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, but the memory of those affronted ocean blues drifted unbidden into her mind. He’d told her to take off her dress. Frowning, she lifted the sheet and discovered a soft gown had replaced it.Motherfucker.
A quick mental assessment revealed she felt physically better, not worse—no signs of pain or injury.
Pulse quickening, she scanned the small cubicle for a weapon. Nothing but the vase. Not even the arsenal he’d carriedon his belt earlier. The Guardian’s jacket hung carelessly open, revealing a glimpse of soft white cotton clinging to his muscular torso. A flash of a taut abdomen. His closed fist rested on his lap, clutching something tightly.
River’s sculpted power made her all too aware that she’d become a faded echo of her former self. Without her concealer, contouring, and the calculated lighting that made her videos sparkle, she was just … ordinary.
Face it, Blake … some things are just common.
She turned away, adjusting her borrowed clothes to hide her stomach. That’s when she noticed her ring finger was bare. And her phone was nowhere in sight.
Don’t worry, Sparkles, I’ll keep your shinies safe.
She glared at River’s clenched fist on his lap. He’d stolen her wedding rings. That little fucker.
As quietly as possible, she slid the blanket from her body but froze when it rustled loudly. She checked on the sleeping Guardian. His brows twitched together, and he made short, hitched sounds as though he was having a nightmare.
Still asleep. Good.
She swung her bare legs over the bedside. The pale blue gown rode up to her thighs. Huh. Interesting. Her legs and feet were clean. Had he bathed her? The thought left an uncomfortable yet not entirely unwelcome feeling circling her chest.
Blake tiptoed toward him, holding her breath. Before losing her nerve, she lowered to her knees and inspected his fist more closely. He was definitely clutching something, more tightly now, but it couldn’t be her phone. Strangely, she hadn’t noticed the blue glittering marks on his hand before. They swirled over his skin in a pattern that flowed and worked with his existing tattoos—tattoos she distinctly remembered.
Perhaps the market’s bright light had obscured the blue marks, or maybe they were made from some kind of glow-in-the-dark ink that only showed indoors. Unable to hold the air in her lungs any longer, she exhaled … right onto River’s skin.
He went utterly still. Then, a single eye popped open and focused on Blake. It closed again. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned languidly, exposing more of that obscenely toned abdomen. His foot slid out and bumped into her, knocking a squeak from her lips.
“Oh. Hello, Sparkles,” he greeted, lazy heat in his amused stare. “On your knees for me already?”
Blake’s cheeks blazed. “I’m just trying to get me things you stole. You know, like the wedding rings and phone.”
His expression went blank. “You don’t need them anymore.”
She stared, wondering if he was serious. No one who flirted this much could be serious. And she wasn’t in prison. So, how bad could this situation be?
“Give it back. I want to call me husband.”
She wasn’t sure why she kept bringing that up, but every mention of her husband made River’s expression darken. Weird feelings churned in her body. She felt untethered. Irritated by her own instability.
He leaned down until his nose hovered inches from hers. “You don’t need him anymore either.”
“What kind of drongo thing is that to say?”
“Drongo?” He blinked.
“Just give me phone back, alright?”
“Can’t.” He sat back. “It’s destroyed. Even if it wasn’t, it’s a two-thousand-year-old relic. It won’t work.”
Her deepening irritation brightened his entire expression. He very well might thrive on provoking people. She would have hurled something physical at him if not for those words:two-thousand-year-old relic. At the market, the vendor had called Blake an old worlder.
Relic. Old. Relic. Old worlder. Old.Old.
The ancient, cracked yet familiar vase. Her disintegrating dress. The fairytale people with animal features who dressed almost, but not quite, normal.
“What are you saying?” she asked quietly, staring at her hands. “Please just be straight with me.”
