With shaking fingers, I picked up the eraser, smoothing the faded shape of the scales of a Libra star sign.
Chapter Five
I drifted in agony, my mind touching memories too swollen with hate and disgust to linger long.
Everything inside me reeked with the need to reap vengeance. It was all I lived, all I ate, all I breathed.
Until her.
Until the imposter with green eyes.
—Kill
Kill’s gaze opened at the sound of the large bowl clinking onto the tile. A small wave of warm water splashed onto the floor. Placing the towels beside his head, I kept the blanket away for now so it didn’t get wet.
He raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are you doing?”
My heart still hurt, my mind desperately trying to unlock the meaning of the eraser. It meant something. The connection—the flashback.
I refused to meet his eyes. “Cleaning you. You’re covered in blood. It’s unhygienic. Then, if you can move, you need to get into bed to rest; if not, I’ll make you a bed here and I’ll get you something to eat.”
He stared for a long moment, his eyes warring with astonishment and disbelief. “You’re going to clean me?” He swallowed. “You’re going to bathe me, feed me, and stay… even though only hours ago my brothers kidnapped you and you woke in the compound of the Pures?”
Ignoring most of that, I asked, “The Pures?”
He frowned, still unable to figure out if I was insane or just incredibly stupid. “Pure Corruption. My MC. You do understand I’m the president?” His hand swept up, heavy and slightly shaky to press against my temple. “I’m seriously fearing for your mental capacity.”
Ignoring that, too, I asked, “How did you become president?”
Keep him talking. Every word from his lips was like a bread crumb leading to a meal I desperately wanted to devour.
He breathed out hard. “None of your damn business.”
“Why do you live alone and not with your brothers? Isn’t it a requirement to live as one happy family?”
He growled, “Again, none of your damn business. And I’m the fucking president. I can do what I want, so stop asking questions.”
I nodded, eyeing his belt buckle. “Okay. Take your trousers off if you don’t want to talk.”
He half laughed, half groaned. “You are the strangest woman I’ve ever met.” He looked down his shirtless front. Instead of the wry smiles he’d been giving, seriousness glowed in his eyes. He looked younger and older all at the same time—giving me a glimpse of genuineness below the rough exterior. “You want to get me into bed and out of my pants?” The words pretended to be jovial, but the tone… It wasn’t.
Something tugged in my stomach, stronger than the tug in my heart. My scalp prickled with intensity and the high ceiling room with its quiet humming computers filled with stagnant awareness.
I swallowed, cursing the skip in my racing heart.
“Would you let me?” I whispered.
Kill sucked in a breath, his stomach rippling. The red, raw stitches on his pectoral looked angry against the whiteness of his flesh. The edge of a tattoo peeked from the sides of his ribs, hinting at a full back piece.
“I’ll find out who you are, Forgetful Girl. And when I do, you won’t be safe from me.” His voice whispered around me—a trap that I doubted I’d get free from.
“I’m counting on it. And when you find out who I am—tell me.” I looked into his gaze, transmitting my wish. Unravel my life. Then I wouldn’t be locked in the dark with an unfathomable connection.
My hand went tentatively for his buckle. Without a word, he pushed me away, reaching for the belt. He winced, letting his right arm fall to his side. “On second thought, I can’t do it one-handed. You’ll have to help.”
Taking a deep breath, I helped him undo the heavy silver buckle, then locked eyes with him as he popped the top button and moved his hand away from the zipper.
We didn’t speak, but something so sharp and in tune hung between us. It spoke in whispered verse, in barely acknowledged lyrics.
Kill cleared his throat.
I didn’t move.
Then my fingers fluttered over the most private part of him, grasping his zipper and tugging slowly, oh so slowly down.
He gritted his teeth. His jeans gaped open, showing dark grey boxer-briefs. He arched his hips, giving me space to yank them down.
My eyes flew briefly to the gun resting beneath the desk. I could crawl to it within seconds. I could hold it to his head while I stood and walked away. He wouldn’t die—not now that I’d stemmed the bleeding.
I didn’t need to ask questions. I’d been given all I needed to know.
But I couldn’t.
I just couldn’t.
The only sound was the clunk of his heavy jeans as they slipped off his large legs. His hips fell back onto the cold tiles and my eyes latched onto a huge art piece encapsulating his entire left leg. The design was of crashing waves with hidden symbols, equations, and promises hidden in the froth. A girl, whose red hair flowed up with the tide and disappeared into his boxers, smiled sexily, while her green mermaid’s tail kissed his knee. The damn Libra sign was in there, too—repeated over and over—yet another reminder of something I’d forgotten.
“You aren’t anything like I expected a biker lord to be like.”
“You had expectations? That’s dangerous.”
I tensed, wanting to trace the beautiful colors on his leg. “Regardless, it seems we have something in common,” I whispered.