Page 23 of Misery
Honestly, I’m not ready for reality to hit yet.
The sounds from the kitchen are domestic.
Normal. Pans clattering, coffee dripping.
I could almost pretend this is something else.
Something simple.
Not hiding from a cartel.
Not processing that I kissed a killer last night and wanted more.
I pad out barefoot, still wearing his t-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, and stop dead in the doorway.
Oskar's at the stove, back to me in all his shirtless glory.
I've seen shirtless men before.
At the beach, at the gym, around the clubhouse.
But this is different.
This is a man who looks like a damn god.
His back is a canvas of ink and scars.
Norse mythology spreads across his shoulders—wolves and ravens and what looks like Yggdrasil, the world tree.
But there are darker symbols mixed in.
Things I don't recognize.
Things that look like warnings.
Scars interrupt the tattoos.
A bullet wound near his ribs.
What might be knife marks along his spine.
Each one showing me how dark and dangerous Oskar can really be.
His shoulders are broader than Emil's.
Muscles move under skin as he flips bacon, his casual strength in every motion.
Dark hair slightly too long, like he hasn't bothered with a barber in months.
When he turns partially to grab a plate, I see him in an entirely different light.
Strong jaw, shadowed with stubble.
That nose that's been broken at least once. And his chest—Gods, it’s perfect.
"Morning." He doesn't turn around. Of course, he knew I was there. "Coffee's ready."
"How long have you been up?"
