Unchained Beauty (The Deadly Beauties Live On 5)

It’s like the Tudor debacle that took me a while to understand.

But I find it odd that he opens that journal and his entire voice almost changes.

“You were too much of a gentleman to fantasize about the things you’d do to your mate, yet you’ve felt me up just to be a dick before.”

I feel his smile against the side of my head. “I was a completely different man then,” he goes on, his voice not hitting the sad note I anticipate.

“I didn’t remain a gentleman for all that long,” he adds, and I snort back a laugh, feeling his smile against my head again.

Idly, my hand moves over some of the scars and slave markings on one of his arms—a full sleeve of tattoos. Then my hand runs back over to his chest, absorbing this one moment of semi-normalcy—considering we’re very lethal immortals amidst a war.

“I wondered for so long what language you spoke. It took some time, but I figured it out. I learned English just to try and figure out what your lips were saying when they were moving,” he goes on, and my chest vibrates with what is almost described as a purr.

When I feel yet another smile from him, I’m almost worried he’s setting me up for one really cruel insult or something, because this is really out of character.

“I listened to the subtle differences and changes in the language all throughout the years. I tried to keep up with it, since half of what I thought you were saying didn’t make a damn bit of bloody sense, due to the ever-changing vernacular and dialect,” he says, sounding a little irritated.

I find myself grinning agai

nst his chest.

His arm fastens tighter around me, dragging me up a little bit so that my forehead touches his cheek. I’m practically lying on one half of his body now, skin pressed all along skin in such a natural, easy way.

It was never like this with the dead ex. That’s my only point of reference, so even being with Slade after he went into a homicidal rage is a step in the right direction.

He continues reading like these are the words on the page. His head dips to mine as I stare at the words I don’t understand. I also mildly wonder what is going on with the dose of sweet he’s giving me. Again.

Because I’m paranoid like that.

“Dice helped my ever-changing vernacular,” I tell him.

“Never saw him very much in the images of you. Usually it was blurred around the edges. Sometimes it was crystal clear. It seemed the more furious I got, the better the imaging,” he tells me.

He kisses the top of my head, and I grin.

“Now tell me you didn’t kill him because of what he did to me, and I’ll believe you,” I say softly.

He snorts derisively. “Of course I killed him for what he did.” When I smile, he adds, “I also killed him for touching you at all.”

There are some things that shouldn’t sound romantic. Really, there are. Just none come to mind right now.

“I watched you struggle with your nature. You lived with monsters who’d learned to cage themselves, and there’d never be a cage for you. You’d go crazy that way,” he goes on almost thoughtfully. “We’re all monsters. Even humans. Just some of us are better at it than others, because we know when a monster is needed.”

“When there’s a worse monster to fight,” I say, and he nods slowly.

“I killed a man today who my father thought to be a friend. I spent a lifetime thinking I knew exactly how we ended up in those rings, yet I never once suspected John,” he says quietly, leaving the journal open beside us.

“You don’t have to explain it to me. I was there. I helped,” I tell him, my eyes still on his journal.

I remember thinking I wouldn’t want to read a journal by a man who spent the vast majority of his life plotting gruesome revenge. Now, seeing him touch the pages like they’re precious and feeling soothed by them, I realize I don’t actually know how he thinks.

I suppose it’s the only earthly possession he truly has after being alive for so long, and even though I wish I knew what was in it, it feels like the worst invasion of privacy to ask.

“I’m not apologizing or explaining, simply stating a fact,” he says softly, kissing the top of my head, almost as though he’s thinking things over. “It makes me wonder if I’m really succeeding.”

“Succeeding at what?” I ask, lifting my head as he does, letting our eyes meet.

He blinks for a second, then stares at me in a way he’s never done before, almost as though he doesn’t want to stop looking.