Chapter 24
Sophie
We spread a large beach towel over the hot sand and sank onto it, the salt from our swim clinging to our skin.
The air was thick with summer—salt sharp on the tongue, heat shimmering, sunscreen melting into a familiar, coconut-sweet haze—layered with the faint bitterness of seaweed drying on the rocks and the soft, honeyed breath of pine drifting down from the hills behind the shore.
It was around two o’clock, but the sun was still high. I gave a contented sigh and pressed my back against Kian’s muscular chest, but all I could think about was his words and how they promised a night I’d never forget.
How could I be so certain? Call it a woman’s intuition.
I couldn’t wait, buzzing with excitement like a kid on Christmas Eve. Only my present would come in the form of a hot-as-sin silver fox. Every lingering look from him had nerves dancing in my stomach.
It wasn’t because I was questioning my choices—although maybe I should—but because I was eager for the bone-shattering, fuck-you-into-oblivion sex I knew this man would deliver.
I wore a sophisticated, white-and-black two-piece that could’ve belonged to an earlier era, when seaside glamour favored restraint and intention over display.
It was modest by modern standards: a high-waisted bottom that gently shaped the hips and smoothed the line of my body.
The top had a structured bandeau, halter style, offering support without excess.
It fastened with a small metal clasp at the back, cool against my sun-warmed skin.
It was just enough to suggest femininity without trying too hard, and judging by Kian’s heated gaze, it was the right choice.
I selfishly hoped he’d give in to my womanly wiles even before the night fell.
I reached for the sunscreen and shifted closer, angling the bottle toward him.
“Could you help, please?” I asked, fluttering my eyelashes in what I hoped passed for innocence. I wasn’t above tempting fate—or him—when the attraction between us already felt so hot it crackled in the air.
Unfortunately, he was wearing dark sunglasses, the lenses hiding his eyes completely, and I couldn’t tell whether my little performance was having any effect.
“Didn’t we just do this?” he asked, though he took the bottle anyway, flipping it open and squeezing sunscreen into his palm.
“Yes, but I burn like a lobster, so I’d rather be safe.
” It wasn’t exactly a lie, though the sunscreen he’d applied twenty minutes ago was nowhere near at risk of failing.
I just wanted his hands on me. My gaze drifted over him: gray swim shorts and a white short-sleeve button-down shirt hanging open, the line of his chest exposed, the subtle definition of his abs catching the sun.
“Aren’t you going to take your shirt off?” I added lightly.
His movements stalled for the briefest second before he set his hands on my shoulders. His palms were warm as he worked the sunscreen into my skin, the touch intimate and sensual.
A shiver traced its way down my spine.
God. If his hands alone could undo me like this, I could only imagine what everything else would feel like with him.
When he still didn’t answer, I twisted around to face him, the sunscreen all but forgotten.
“You don’t have a thing about taking off your clothes, do you?” I asked. He wiped his hands on the extra towel, still silent. I tilted my head, overcome with the urge to poke at him. “You’re not going to have sex with me fully clothed… are you?”
“Of course not.”
He slid his shirt off his shoulders, baring his torso. Heat pooled low in my stomach, my fingers curling into fists as I fought the instinct to touch him. But then…
Why fight this?
We were both adults, and we’d already crossed far more intimate lines.
“I want to touch you,” I murmured. I shifted to face him, reaching out to trace the firm curve of his biceps and the length of his forearms.
“Zemer, you’re already touching me,” he drawled lazily, but something was off. There was an undertone of tension in his voice.
My hands kept moving over him, exploring: his shoulders, the firm planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle beneath my palms. When I reached around his waist and traced my fingertips across his back, my breath caught. Beneath the warmth of his skin were hard lines, uneven and raised.
“What’s that?” I asked, already shifting behind him, needing to see.
A soft gasp escaped me. His back was a canvas of ink—an enormous tattoo stretching from shoulder to shoulder, a skull formed of countless faces, wreathed in smoke and fire and bleeding into shadows. It was haunting and beautiful in a terrible way.
“Whoa,” I breathed, my fingers skimming over the taut, puckered skin. And then I felt them clearly. They were deep scars, burned into his flesh and healed into something permanent.
My chest tightened as understanding sank in. My throat closed.
Those weren’t abstract shapes. They were faces. Twisted in pain. Hollow with nothing left. Some so vivid they made my stomach turn.
I stilled before I moved around to face him and reached up, sliding his sunglasses from his face. His expression was carved from stone.
“Who did this to you?” I asked softly, the question trembling with more than curiosity. It was grief, anger, the sudden, unbearable ache of knowing someone had hurt him this deeply.
“My father.” The words landed like a blow and my eyes widened. “It was a long time ago.”
As if time could dull something like that.
“What happened?” I whispered. Not that there was a single explanation that could justify this. “Why?”
Silence stretched between us, and while he didn’t look away, something in him withdrew. When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped of emotion, and that frightened me more than anger ever could.
“My father liked to hurt those he deemed weaker than him,” he said flatly. “I didn’t.”
The air left my lungs in a sharp exhale. Nausea curled in my stomach. His father. His own father. The man who was supposed to protect him and love him.
Rage surged so fast it made my hands tremble. To hell with my doctor’s oath, to hell with reason—if that man were standing in front of me, I wasn’t sure I would be able to resist tearing him apart with my bare hands.
No one had the right to do that to Kian. No one.
I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around him. “If I ever see him, I’m going to kill him.”
“He’s dead.” His gaze filled with contempt and his voice turned acidic. “I killed him.”
I didn’t know if he expected me to judge him, but I didn’t. Maybe it took this man—the pieces of his story he was slowly revealing—for me to realize that some men deserved to die.
“Good.” I brushed my fingers over his back, keeping my touch light. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into my touch. “And where was your mother?”
I hated that there was accusation in my voice, but dammit, she should have protected him.
“She ran off—left him—when I was young. She wanted to take me with her, but she couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It would have caused a full-blown war between the cartel and the Albanian mafia.”
“You’re worth it,” I argued. “I would have never left you behind. Better to stay and be there for your son than be safe without your son.”
He smiled bitterly.
“She would have died if she stayed. It hurt her to leave me behind, but it was necessary. Besides, I survived.”
I chewed my lip. My instinct was telling me he cared for his mom, but I still couldn’t understand how she could leave him behind.
“Your tattoo,” I started slowly, my voice almost lost beneath the rhythmic crash of the waves and the sharp cries of seagulls overhead. Salt stung my nostrils and the wind tugged at my hair. “Does it mean anything?”
“I ran away at sixteen, leaving my father behind on the Day of the Dead. I ended up in Mexico. The streets were alive with firelight and smoke, the scent of marigolds heavy in the air, and drums pounding like a heartbeat in my chest. His men followed me, but the chaos of celebration hid me from them. The skull… it’s the masks everyone wore that night.
And the faces… those are the faces of those my father tortured because I couldn’t, as well as the faces of men who tortured me.
I later hunted them down and killed them.
They’re etched into my memory, as permanent as ink on skin. ”
God, he was sixteen and all alone, hiding from his cruel father and these mongrels. No wonder his aura exuded strength and confidence. He survived.
“Are there any left?” I breathed.
“No.”
“That’s good and bad,” I muttered.
“Why is that?”
“Because I want to make them pay for hurting you.” It made no sense, but I meant those words. I wanted to ease his memory and the pain that came with it.
“I had many years to find them and make them pay. You, Sophie Baldwin, won’t be staining your hands with blood for me.”
I huffed. “If they deserve it, I will.”
“Now you know how I feel,” he said slowly. “Just like you can’t tolerate injustice, neither can I.”
I swallowed, understanding sinking into my marrow. He was right; Jacqueline, just like the men who hurt him, didn’t deserve to live. She’d hurt Sienna, threatened my family, and caused Jonathan’s death.
Kian cupped my face, his brows drawn into a deep frown and his eyes full of emotions. “I never expected this, zemra ime.”
I reached up and covered his hands with mine. “What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure, but it wasn’t this.” He let out a sardonic breath, taking my hands and planting a kiss on each palm. “Although, I always sensed a fiery wildcat underneath your healer exterior.”
I let out a huff. “I deliver babies. It’s not exactly healing. And you’re probably mistaking my temper for a wildcat.” My brow furrowed as I realized he’d changed my nickname. “What happened to zemer? I kind of liked it.”
He smirked. “This one makes you mine… and only mine.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that, but truth be told, I didn’t mind the idea of being only his. Not one bit.