Page 41 of Fever
He stares at the melted skin, curling his fingers while a nightmare manifests in his pitch-black pupils. “They set me up,” he says with a thick rasp. “My fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. So I held my hands into flames and burned them off.”
My lashes hit my eyelids.
He mutilated his own hands.
18
With nightfall upon us, the animal chorus has settled while creatures get ready for a spell of darkness. The hum of insects fills the void of her unspoken stare—those eyes of onyx rush over my damaged flesh. Fingertips brush the exquisite length of her neck in contemplation. I’d give a million reais to step inside her mind again. To spear her truth and drag it out into the open.
She thinks they’re repulsive.
That I’m damnable.
Hideously spoiled.
I don't want pity, nor do I seek compassion.
These tortured hands are the element of my control. I have the ability to stalk, punish, kill, and burn my enemies to ashes with one tap.
They are a singular reminder of an agonizing personal vendetta.
Her silent scrutiny lights the fuse to my temper. It seethes of liquefied hostility and is ready to spew. Hissing beneath the surface, eager to unleash havoc. I won’t let her into my head.
Tumbles of wet curls pour over a pale shoulder as her head drifts sideways, and that charming accent I adore dances past colorful lips.
“Does it still hurt?” A silky voice, candor yet timid, rips my wilted spirit to shreds.
Of all the questions to ask, she chooses to find out if I’m in pain. There was no gasp of disgust, whirl of horror, or virtuous interrogation.
Fuck, this woman is breaking me.
My heart claws and burns for an affection I have no right to crave. I’m destruction, she’s rebirth. I resent the sincerity because she’s an illusion of perfection, even with a blemish. It gives her an edge, something we have in common. I've been lured by lust before. That’s all this is: innate sexual magnetism. Nothing more.
I promptly curtail the rankle of awe binding me to her. This woman has unwittingly unearthed hidden emotions inside me, so intense and terrifying. They clamor and scrape the venomous vines twisting around the wreckage of my broken heart.
She bites her lip, no doubt sensing the war holding me hostage.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” I say with a gravelly texture to my voice. A tone sandblasted with false nonchalance. “My palms and wrists suffered the most damage. Surprisingly, the nail bed wasn’t badly damaged, which is why my nails have regrown.” I shift in the seat and slide my hand off the table, suddenly unsure if I like her eyes on the ugliness of despair.
Why the fuck do I care?
Her intrigue drifts from my hands to the feast. She slips a sweet brigadeiro into her mouth, offering a faint mewl as the chocolatey sphere coats her lips. Volts of desire rocket up my thighs and shoot to my groin like unforgiving shrapnel. That glimmer of satisfaction stirs my cock to solid.
Lashes flutter, and her tongue skates between her teeth.
I shouldn’t be here, woven into a woman’s devious net.
“What forced you to take such drastic action?”
Thousands of spiders scamper under my skin. I clench my fist to stop the tremble. “It’s not story time. Bad things happened, and I’ve worked hard to recover the debt.”
Returning the journal was a truce. Giving a little back after taking everything away. The funeral spearheaded my abnormal change of heart. It was the moment I realized how sidetracked I’ve become with a fleeting infatuation. During the lonely chopper ride back to the oasis, I swore to unravel our intricate paths. And to do that, I have to put all this nonsense behind me. Now she can occupy her free time with research, and I can rest in the knowledge she’s content for a while.
My men retrieved various belongings from the campsite. Her passport with a teenage version of Iris, solemn and unsure, stuck beneath a laminated cover. A drenched laptop which I erased immediately and then destroyed. And her journal.
I stored her travel visa and notebook in my private quarters. Why I did that puzzles me even now. But I did, and the fucking journal has plagued me ever since. The weathered pages contain notes and diagrams, measurements, and doodles. Scrawly rushed handwriting. An inner passion scribed amid an exciting tropical expedition. A young woman enjoying life.
And that’s what she deserves––to live. Until she proves herself as unfaithful. Then and only then will I remove every privilege I’ve afforded her.
