Page 39 of Savage Truce

Exhausted to my core, I lean my cheek against his chest and close my eyes.

“Miss Donovan,” the doctor says while he wraps something around my upper arm. “I’m just going to check your vitals.”

Just as I begin to doze off, he asks, “Can you tell me how you feel?”

“Tired,” I mumble.

Rodian shifts, and picking me up, he climbs to his feet. A moment later I’m placed down on the bed, and his scent envelops me when he pulls the covers over me.

Waking up, it takes a few seconds for me to remember where I am.

I lift my head, glancing at a walk-in closet, and as I turn to my other side, I see Rodian sitting on a leather couch, a pillow and rumpled blanket beside him.

He’s only wearing black cotton pants, and because he’s leaning forward, typing on his phone, I can’t see much of his chest, but black ink swirls over his shoulders.

His hair is loose, though, reaching just past his shoulders in untamed waves. Somehow it suits him, especially with the thicker beard he seems to be growing.

Suddenly Rodian looks up, and the force of his intense blue eyes locks on me like a heat-seeking missile.

Setting his phone down on the couch, he gets up, and as he walks toward the bed, I’m struck speechless. Slowly, I sit up as I drink in every detail of the tattoo that covers his chest.

Positioned opposite each other across his pecs are two faces. One is smiling, its expression happy, while the other is contorted with anguish and grief.

So beautiful.

Cracked textures and heavy shading fill the space between the two faces.

My lips part when I make out fine strands of thread running through the entire tattoo. Some disappear behind the faces only to emerge again farther along, making it look as if the whole piece has been stitched together.

Oh my God.

Long sewing needles stick out at the bottom, and spools of thread sit near the hard edges of his abs, unraveling into the strands that connect everything.

Just as Rodian sits down on the side of the bed, I see hints of a theater with curtains, and a full-figure woman peeking from behind them.

That’s me.

Lifting my eyes to his, he must see the question in mine, because he taps his right side and says, “When I met you.” Moving his hand to the grief-stricken face on his left pec, he murmurs, “When I lost you.”

While I clung to my memories of him and escaped into dreams of him saving me, he inked his experience into his skin.

Every time he saw the tattoo, he had to think about me.

Up until now, the fear has been overriding everything, but as I stare at the only man who’s ever shown me affection, my heart skips a beat.

I become overly aware of just how much man he is. Rodian is even more muscular than I remember and with all the beautiful ink, he’s almost too much to look at.

Feeling shy, I lower my head, but then I end up staring at his abs and hard lines that curve down his hips. I clear my throat and glance at the couch instead.

Rodian lifts his hand and brushes some of my hair behind my ear, and as I meet his eyes again, he tilts his head and asks, “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve slept a year,” I answer honestly.

“It’s the medication you were given. Dr. Kravets said it would make you sleepy, which was a good thing. You needed the rest.” His hand moves to my cheek, and he brushes the backs of his fingers over my skin. “Your color is better.”

For a moment we stare at each other, and I begin to remember all the good things I experienced during our night together. But then the fact that he’s the pakhan overshadows it all, and I tear my eyes away from his to glance around the room.

“Is this your bedroom?”