Page 128 of The Billionaire's Bride
O-k-a-y, what the hell is this? Some kind of battle lines are being drawn here that I can’t quite figure out. "What’s happening?" I whisper to Baron. "Who’s he?"
Sinner stalks toward the new arrivals, and plants himself in between Summer and the man. "My wife asked you a question," he rumbles. "Who are you?"
"I," the man’s lips turn up in a semblance of a smile, one that resembles a shark who’s sniffed his next prey, "I am Michael Byron."
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Karma
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"
Tears prick the back of my eyes. Goddamn Byron. Crept up on me when I am at my weakest. Not that I am a poetry addict, by any measure, but words are my jam.
The one consolation I have, that when everything else in the world is wrong, I can turn to them, and they’ll be there, friendly steady, waiting with open arms. And this particular poem had laced my blood, crawled into my gut when I’d first read it. Darkness had folded into me like an insidious snake that raises its head when I least expect it. Like now. I'd managed to give my bodyguard the slip and veered off my usual running route to reachWaterlow Park.
I look out on the still sleeping city of London, from the grassy slope of the expanse. Somewhere out there the Mafia was hunting me, apparently.
I purse my lips, close my eyes. Silence. The rustle of the wind between the leaves, the faint tinkle of the water from the nearby spring.
I could be the last person on this planet, alone, unsung, bound for the grave.
Ugh! Stop. Right there.I drag the back of my hand across my nose. Try it again, focus, get the words out, one after the other, like the steps of my sorry life.
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"My voice breaks. "Bloody, asinine, hell." I dig my fingers into the grass and grab a handful and fling it out. Again. From the top. I open my eyes, focus on a spot in the distance.
"Morn came and went—and came, and…."
"…brought no day."
I whip my head around. His profile fills my line of sight. Dark hair combed back by a ruthless hand that booked no measure.
My throat dries.
Hooked nose, thin upper lip, a fleshy lower lip, that hints at hidden desires. Heat. Lust. The sensuous scrape of that whiskered jaw over my innermost places. Across my inner thigh, reaching toward that core of me that throbs, clenches, melts to feel the stab of his tongue, the thrust of his hardness as he impales me, takes me, makes me his.
"Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light.."
Sweat beads my palm; the hairs on my nape rise. "Who are you?"
He stares ahead, his lips moving,
"Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black."
I swallow, squeeze my thighs together. Moisture gathers in my core. How can I be wet by the mere cadence of this stranger’s voice?
I spring up to my feet.
"Sit down."
