forehead.
CHAPTER 8
Lydia woke up with the strangest sensation. Never in her life had she not dreamt. But not a single dream
had come to her last night. When the Guardian had said he’d stripped her powers, he wasn’t kidding.
He didn’t even know she had that one.
Did he?
Stretching, she rol ed over to find him at his desk where he’d been when she fel asleep. Stil dressed in
his loose black clothes, he’d pul ed his chair around so that he faced the bed and his back was to the wal .
But he wasn’t paying her any attention.
Instead, he held an old-fashioned leather-bound book in his lap with one large, graceful, masculine hand.
He leaned back in the chair with his arm propped on the desk and his undamaged cheek resting on his fist.
His insanely long legs were stretched out before him, and crossed at the ankles. She smiled at the
unexpected sight of his wel -shaped bare feet. They were so cute and she’d never thought that about feet
before. Normal y, they grossed her out.
How strange that the sight of them succeeded in making him seem like any man, anywhere.
Wel , not any man. Men this handsome were few and far between. Men this good-looking and ripped
were even rarer. And finding one with his body, hair, and eyes was like finding a unicorn. In fact, she’d never
seen a man with red hair who wasn’t freckled or pale-skinned—not that there was anything wrong with that. It
was just what you expected whenever you met a natural redhead, male or female. But there wasn’t a single
freckle anywhere on his body and even though he hadn’t seen daylight in who knew how long, his skin was
tanned and tawny.
Gah, even bruised and scarred, he made her mouth water.
How could that pose be so incredibly sexy? So lickably luscious?
With the one hand he had on the book, he turned the page without looking up.
She smiled at the sight of al those unruly auburn curls. Shirley Temple had nothing on him. And yet they
stil managed to be unbelievably masculine. More than that, she real y, real y wanted to play with them.
And as she studied his features, she noted that the bruise around his blood-fil ed eye had turned an ugly
shade of dark purple. He had another new bruise on his ear that had been bleeding the night before. The
handprint was also more pronounced today, as were the swol en, fresh bite marks on his neck.
She wanted to weep at the sight of them. Yet there he sat, so used to them that he didn’t even comment
on the pain they had to be causing him.
I’m so sorry I stabbed you. He was so not what she’d thought him to be when they first met. How could
she have misjudged him so?
But then it wasn’t entirely her fault. In spite of the legion of beatings and insults he’d endured, he carried
himself as fiercely and confidently as any warrior or king. He exuded so much power and authority that no
one would ever suspect he was Noir’s punching bag and, from what she’d seen last night, most likely
Azura’s bootie cal boy-toy.
But then maybe that was his shield. His way of not letting other people know his shame.
It kept them at arm’s length, and in this hel acious place, it probably kept others from hurting him, too. That
thought made her want to wrap her arms around him and hold him close.
If only he’d let her.
Clearing her throat, she final y spoke. “Did you not sleep at al ?”
He shook his head, but didn’t elaborate. “Are you hungry?”
“Not yet. I need to be awake for a few before I eat.” Sitting up, she frowned at the closed laptop. “You
stopped researching?”
“There was nothing to be found and I got tired of trying to decipher a writing form that makes no sense to
me.”
But he’d been so happy when she’d gone to bed … at least she thought it was happy, looking at al the
pictures and listening to her music. Now he was back to that solemnity that seemed to be hardwired into his
DNA.
She slid off the bed and went to see what he was reading, but she
CHAPTER 8
Lydia woke up with the strangest sensation. Never in her life had she not dreamt. But not a single dream
had come to her last night. When the Guardian had said he’d stripped her powers, he wasn’t kidding.
He didn’t even know she had that one.
Did he?
Stretching, she rol ed over to find him at his desk where he’d been when she fel asleep. Stil dressed in
his loose black clothes, he’d pul ed his chair around so that he faced the bed and his back was to the wal .
But he wasn’t paying her any attention.
Instead, he held an old-fashioned leather-bound book in his lap with one large, graceful, masculine hand.
He leaned back in the chair with his arm propped on the desk and his undamaged cheek resting on his fist.
His insanely long legs were stretched out before him, and crossed at the ankles. She smiled at the
unexpected sight of his wel -shaped bare feet. They were so cute and she’d never thought that about feet
before. Normal y, they grossed her out.
How strange that the sight of them succeeded in making him seem like any man, anywhere.
Wel , not any man. Men this handsome were few and far between. Men this good-looking and ripped
were even rarer. And finding one with his body, hair, and eyes was like finding a unicorn. In fact, she’d never
seen a man with red hair who wasn’t freckled or pale-skinned—not that there was anything wrong with that. It
was just what you expected whenever you met a natural redhead, male or female. But there wasn’t a single
freckle anywhere on his body and even though he hadn’t seen daylight in who knew how long, his skin was
tanned and tawny.
Gah, even bruised and scarred, he made her mouth water.
How could that pose be so incredibly sexy? So lickably luscious?
With the one hand he had on the book, he turned the page without looking up.
She smiled at the sight of al those unruly auburn curls. Shirley Temple had nothing on him. And yet they
stil managed to be unbelievably masculine. More than that, she real y, real y wanted to play with them.
And as she studied his features, she noted that the bruise around his blood-fil ed eye had turned an ugly
shade of dark purple. He had another new bruise on his ear that had been bleeding the night before. The
handprint was also more pronounced today, as were the swol en, fresh bite marks on his neck.
She wanted to weep at the sight of them. Yet there he sat, so used to them that he didn’t even comment
on the pain they had to be causing him.
I’m so sorry I stabbed you. He was so not what she’d thought him to be when they first met. How could
she have misjudged him so?
But then it wasn’t entirely her fault. In spite of the legion of beatings and insults he’d endured, he carried
himself as fiercely and confidently as any warrior or king. He exuded so much power and authority that no
one would ever suspect he was Noir’s punching bag and, from what she’d seen last night, most likely
Azura’s bootie cal boy-toy.
But then maybe that was his shield. His way of not letting other people know his shame.
It kept them at arm’s length, and in this hel acious place, it probably kept others from hurting him, too. That
thought made her want to wrap her arms around him and hold him close.
If only he’d let her.
Clearing her throat, she final y spoke. “Did you not sleep at al ?”
He shook his head, but didn’t elaborate. “Are you hungry?”
“Not yet. I need to be awake for a few before I eat.” Sitting up, she frowned at the closed laptop. “You
stopped researching?”
“There was nothing to be found and I got tired of trying to decipher a writing form that makes no sense to
me.”
But he’d been so happy when she’d gone to bed … at least she thought it was happy, looking at al the
pictures and listening to her music. Now he was back to that solemnity that seemed to be hardwired into his
DNA.
She slid off the bed and went to see what he was reading, but she
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