Reap (Scarred Souls, #2)(41)

I stared at him in silence. “How?” I whispered, unsure whether I really wanted to know the answer.

“Killing,” he said, as if it was an ordinary everyday activity.

I swallowed and stepped forward. “Do you kill a lot?”

Emphatically, he nodded his head. “It is all that I do.”

Blowing out through my mouth, I pointed to the fridge. But Zaal’s attention kept drifting to the windows overlooking the beach. I leaned back against the fridge and watched his eyes try to interpret the scene.

Quietly, I moved beside him, and placed my hand on his arm. He tensed and whipped his angered face toward me. I stilled, and he seemed to remind himself I was no threat, his expression softening. “Would you like to go outside?” I asked nonchalantly.

He blinked, then blinked again. But he shook his head. His gaze drifted to the window. Taking his hand, I led him to the window. Releasing my hand, he edged forward and pressed his hands to the glass.

A warm feeling stirred in my stomach as he stared out of the large pane of glass. His eyes were flitting over everything in sight. Perhaps he was committing it to memory?

Did he think he would be captured again soon? That he would never see this sight again?

Zaal looked out for minutes, in a happy silence. I wanted to give him more. “Zaal. Come with me,” I prompted, and led him up to a bedroom. Luka and Kisa had been staying in this room. Luka still had some hooded sweatshirts hanging in the closet. Zaal stood in the center of the room. His eyes taking in the furniture; the bed, dresser, everything.

Choosing the biggest hooded sweatshirt I could find, I walked to Zaal and unzipped the front zipper. “Put this on,” I instructed.

Zaal looked at the sweatshirt and then at me.

I couldn’t help but smile at the lost look on his face, over something as simple as a sweatshirt. A wisp of a laugh slipped from my mouth. Suddenly, I found rough fingers stroking my lips.

Zaal was staring at my lips in fascination. “What is this called in your language?” he asked.

I wrapped my hand over his fingers, and replied, “A smile.”

“A … smi … le…” He sounded out the word as he moved closer to my lips. The task of breathing became difficult as he stood a mere hairsbreadth away. His head leaned in closer, and for a moment, I thought he would kiss me. Instead he drew back and pressed his fingers to his own lips.

Finding my stolen voice, I asked, “Do you smile, Zaal?”

He paused, then shook his head. His expression changed from confused to enquiring. He asked, “Why do you smile?”

My heart beat at double speed. “When something makes you happy. When you feel happy.”

“Happy…,” he whispered. Then he took the hooded sweatshirt from my hands. “You were happy giving me this?” He looked down at the sweatshirt, clearly with interest.

Not wanting Zaal to think that I was laughing at his naivety, I took the sweatshirt, held it out for him to slip on, threaded it over his arms and, moving to his front, zipped it up. He still awaited my answer, so I replied, “I am happy that you’re finally free.”

Zaal paused, then lifted his hand. He ran it through my hair. “Your hair is soft,” he observed.

Perplexed by the sudden change in conversation, I responded by running my hair over the ends of his long jet black hair, and said, “Now so is yours.”

He followed my fingers through his almost-dry hair. His eyes met mine, and he asked, “You took care of me?”

I swallowed as my throat felt too full with such attraction for this man. “Yes,” I whispered, “I took care of you.”

His head dipped again and his finger ran down my cheek. His finger continued south, over my breasts, my nipples aching under his touch. Then his finger tapped over my heart, before moving to tap over his. “Because … you are … for me.”

Time stopped as he said those words again. Though on this occasion, they weren’t a question. To him, I could tell it was fact. In his eyes, I was his, I was for him.

“Let’s go to the beach,” I announced, unable to earth the electricity crackling between us. His eyes widened, but before I gave him a chance to resist, I guided him out of the room and down the stairs.

As we turned the corner into the living room, Savin and Ilya were standing in the center. Zaal tensed. I turned around and, standing on my tiptoes, pressed my hand to his cheek. “They are here to protect you, not cage you.”

Zaal’s eyes narrowed as they focused on my byki, but he wanted to trust me. I could see that Zaal was placing his trust in me.

Zaal, this time, took my hand. My heart bloomed as I cast him a smile. I heard his breathing hitch, so I smiled even wider.

I tried to lead us past Savin and Ilya, but Savin stepped forward. “Miss, a word, please?”

I stared at Savin, his dark gaze was stern. “What, Savin?”

His eyes flicked to Zaal then to me. “In private, please.”

“It can wait, Sav,” I replied, then he said, “does the knayz know you’re doing this?”

I stiffened. Anger and a hint of guilt built in my stomach. “He’s in Brooklyn, summoned by the Pakhan. He doesn’t need the hassle. He has enough to deal with.”

Savin nodded, his mouth tight. He knew that I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I continued without hesitation. “He wants this situation made right.” I glanced back to Zaal, who had moved closer to my back, a protective gesture. “I’m helping to make it right,” I concluded.