Page 117 of Savage Hearts
He cups my jaw in his hand, turns my face up to his, and tenderly kisses me.
“Tell me I didn’t hurt you. I’ll never forgive myself if I did.”
I know he isn’t talking about his hideous nickname for me. I gaze into his beautiful eyes, smiling. “Only in the best way.”
When he cocks a brow, I clarify. “I’ll probably be sore. A lot sore. You’re not exactly… let’s just say your dragon isn’t tiny like me.”
He rolls to his back, taking me with him, and laughs and laughs as I lie on his chest and gaze down at him, amazed.
Who is this happy assassin? Where did my growling, scowling Malek go?
“You’re very giggly all of a sudden.”
He stops laughing and looks at me. “Giggly?” he repeats, insulted.
“Sorry. You’re right, manly men like you don’t giggle.”
“Exactly.”
He tries to scowl, but fails miserably. His lips curve up into a smile instead.
I reach up and trace the outline of his mouth, finding it impossible not to smile back at him. “I’m curious. How does someone born and raised in Russia speak English without an accent?”
He passes his hand through my hair, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as the strands flow through his fingers.
“Because when that someone travels the world using different passports and identities, it’s helpful not to sound Russian. My size makes me stand out enough as it is. I practiced for a long time to sound like I came from nowhere in particular.”
The man with no past and no future who comes from nowhere and lights a girl’s heart on fire with only the force of his pale green eyes.
What a fascinating mystery he is.
I fold my hands over his chest and prop my chin on top.
When I stare at him for too long, he says, “What?”
“How old are you?”
That amuses him. His smile deepens, and his eyes dance with laughter. “Why do I get the feeling this is just the beginning of a long and arduous interrogation?”
“It’s called conversation. I ask questions, and you answer them.”
“No, that’s interrogation. In a conversation, the questions go back and forth.”
“You’ll get your chance. I’m going first.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
I reach up and touch his beard. It’s soft and springy under my fingertips, delightfully crisp. If he ever shaves it off, I’ll kill him.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Never mind. Back to my question about your age.”
“I’m thirty-three.” After a pause, he adds, “Your eyes just got big.”
“You’re nine years older than me.”
“Really? You look younger than that by years.”
