Page 32 of Marked

The icy waves pushed him farther and farther into the water. Seaweed slithered around his legs and ankles, promising to never let go.

Finally, he’d be taken from his fucked-up life. He wouldn’t need to watch Mama get beaten anymore. Wouldn’t be hungry. Wouldn’t go to school in shitty clothes.

Water rushed into his nose.

His last breath.

Was God nice? Would he be sent back to earth to a life with a different family or straight to hell, where he belonged?

His dad’s voice rang in his head: “God won’t save your bastard soul.”

His body jerked involuntarily. His brain flickered.

I don’t want to leave you, brothers.

A chilled hand grabbed his shoulder.

CHAPTER 9

Sophia bundled her cardigan around her while she stared at Cole’s sleeping form. He lay sprawled on the couch, his left arm draped above his head and his chin slightly tucked.

Early-morning light came in through the windows—just enough to remind her that it was a new day and Bella was still missing. And enough to let her get a closer look at the man she’d enlisted.

Even asleep he looked scary. His size alone was enough to give a person chills. Tattoos stopped at the line of his underwear. On the inside of his raised forearm, four interconnected rings were inked into his flesh. So simple among the other more graphic, jagged designs.

There was also evidence of injuries: Bullet grazes, cuts that had healed without medical attention, a burn mark on his right pec, and a sloppily stitched scar on his abdomen, indicating a knife wound. A circle of crinkled flesh, likely a bullet hole, ate through one of the tattoos—some kind of graffiti writing that she couldn’t make out—beneath his collarbone.

Until now, she hadn’t really examined his face. A small scar etched the skin just above his eyebrow. Probably from a fist.

Killer or not, Cole was quite the specimen.

If she’d met him under normal circumstances, she’d find him hot. Delicious even. Every girl’s bad-boy fantasy in the flesh. The walls of her throat thickened and her focus skimmed over his muscular abdomen to the swell in his briefs. Of course he was hung, too.

Warmth tingled her cheeks.

Oh, Lord, Sophia. Don’t you dare get a crush on this man.

His biceps contracted. She frowned and brought her attention back to his face. Sweat dampened his brow and neck and his chest no longer lifted—he’d stopped breathing. Unease kept her arms glued around her waist, one over top of the other.

His stomach muscles flexed.

He’s holding his breath.

A nightmare? He thrashed his head from side to side and his legs twitched. She brought her hand to his shoulder. His skin was cool and clammy, but he didn’t stir. If anything, more agitation crunched his brow. She shook him.

Cole gasped and grabbed her wrist, his clutch as tight as a vise.

She squeaked and stumbled backward, but his hold kept her from falling. “Cole,” she said sharply.

Cole’s gaze dragged its way from the hand gripping her up to her face. Recognition cleared away his frown, and he dropped her arm.

“We slept.” She couldn’t help the accusation in her tone. Not that she blamed him for getting a few hours of rest, but she hadn’t wanted to sleep. Instead of waking her, he’d covered her with a blanket.

He wiped his face, clearly groggy.

She surveyed his naked chest and frowned. “You’re sweating.”

The apartment was cold, and he’d been sprawled out in his briefs without a blanket.

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