My whole body reacts. An electrical current zaps through me, like I’ve been hit with a cattle prod, and I couldn’t stop moving toward her even if I tried.
At the side of her bed, I halt, stopping myself from touching her. Instead, my eyes rake over her, drinking her naked body in through the night vision, remembering everything from last night. She’s absolutely stunning.
I want to fall to my knees and worship this woman.
It’s not Leeva, my mind resists.
My eyes move over her long legs. Her thighs are closed, hiding her pussy that had been like entering the pearly gates of heaven. The flare of her hips and narrow waist. Her full, lush breasts. Then up the long, graceful column of her neck.
The body might not be how I remember Leeva, but her face is. Now that she’s unmasked, I wonder how I didn’t recognize her full, pouty lips that I’ve dreamed of kissing for years, her tapered jawline, or the slight point of her chin.
But why would I ever think the sexy siren in Hedon was my long-lost best friend? Not only because of her body changes, but because Hedon is the last place I ever would’ve expected her.
It seems time has changed more than just her body…
This woman isn’t Leeva. It can’t be; there’s no tattoo.I’m still caught in this resistance spiral.
My gaze moves to the spot on her neck where Guerilla’s tattoo should be.
I’m here tonight to determine, one way or the other, who this woman is. If Tats’ concoction works and peels back the edges of a skin prosthetic, then it’s Leeva. If not, it’s Kathryn Wentzell, who is only Leeva’s doppelgänger.
Setting my bag on the floor, I pull out the vial from Tats. He warned it would be highly irritating to the skin and cautioned me to use as little as possible.
Dabbing some onto a cotton pad, I kneel at the side of the bed. She shifts and groans, making me freeze. I study her to see if she’s waking, but she still breathes deeply. However, her face is pinched, as if in pain.
Noticing a prescription bottle on the bedside table, I lean closer to read the label and recognize it as the same medication Leeva used when she began getting intense migraines. I always said the timing of their onset coincided with her involvement with Guerilla.
I study her now, contemplating.
As Army/Hayes Cartwright, I worry that Leeva still has those migraines.
As a former Marine and with my pragmatic, analyzing brain, this is another check in the box that this woman is, in fact, Leeva.
As the wolf from last night—the one with filthy, deviant thoughts and desires—I grin, knowing nothing will wake Leeva right now because the medication always had a sedation effect on her.
Turning my attention back to my task, I press the cotton pad to her neck and gently swipe it over the skin. Leaning closer, I study her neck, looking for the slight lift of the skin prosthetic that’s hiding the tattoo underneath.
Nothing happens.
Frowning, I dampen the cotton pad with more of Tats’ concoction and reapply it. I wait again, but still nothing. I do it for a third time, ignoring his warning that this is highly irritating, because I need to know.
Still nothing.
Frustration brews in me, and I run my fingertips over her angry, reddened skin. But the skin isn’t textured, and there’s no presence of scarring underneath to indicate the tattoo was removed, either.
Denial and disappointment roll through me. Thishasto be Leeva. I want it to be Leeva. But in the same breath, I don’t because that meant I dirtied her with my filth.
But without Guerilla’s tattoo, or any evidence that it was ever there, how can it be her?
My fingers curl, and my fingernails lightly scratch her neck, searching for the edge of the fake skin covering Guerilla’s mark.
But there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I sit back on my heels, defeat and sorrow crushing in.
Thisisn’tLeeva. This isn’t my little dove, my best friend.
I’ve missed her so fucking much. I spent years convincing myself that she was better off wherever she was, so I could live with the pain of her absence. The pain of losing her.
