Love Like Blood: (Royal Blood #5) (19 page)

O
ne year later
...

T
he hot
, tropical sun beat down on my exposed shoulders, warming my skin as I worked.

Sanding the hull of a twenty-foot boat by hand was bloody hard work, and at first, my muscles had protested, but now the movement had become second nature. Who needed a fucking gym membership when you had hard labor to tone your muscles.

Nine months in Jamaica and my pale, British skin had toasted itself enough that I’d developed a nice tan and a tolerance to long stretches of UV exposure.

It was a different way of life, a sleepy way, and everything I’d done to disappear from The Hangman and his legacy had been successful. X had my back like he’d promised, and I hadn’t been bothered…yet. I was a new man embarking on a new life. Was it atonement or something else? I didn’t know, but I had accepted that this place was my home.

“That’s a nasty scar, Mr.,” Lamar said, pulling my attention back to reality.

Glancing down at the bullet hole that marked my stomach, I smiled sadly at how such a thing could fondly remind me of everything I’d loved and lost.

“I was shot,” I said, glancing back up at the Jamaican man who’d come to work for me. “Home invasion.”

“That’s terrible,” he said. “But I’m sure you’re stronger for it.”

I shrugged, holding my hand out. “Can you toss me up that sanding block?”

When I’d told the men at the local bar that I planned on restoring a boat by hand, they laughed at me. Why do that when I could plug in an electric sander, they’d said. Of course, the Englishman was mad, but one man had spoken up saying there was nothing more satisfying than accomplishing something with your own two hands. It was a notion I could relate to. The problem I’d been having was turning that skill into something constructive, like carving wood instead of flesh.

That man had been Lamar, a sixty-eight-year-old Jamaican who’d earned his due on the ocean, fishing and working the ropes, since he was ten years old. The beach and this country were the only things in his blood, and when we got to talking, he’d revealed he was on hard times. I needed help getting set up with my boat, and he had the know-how.

That’s how he came to be helping me sand the massive hull of the beast I was currently slaving over. I’d saved it from the scrapheap for a bargain price and had it propped up on the beach out the back of the little house I’d bought, and we’d worked on it for eight months solid. There was a long way to go, but I had time. I had all the time in the world.

I thought about Lorelei often as I worked. After X told me she’d escaped from custody, I’d hoped she’d find me, and we’d disappear together. I’d hoped for a great many things that had never came to pass.

Remembering the night in the cottage when I’d told her about this place, I wondered if she’d even remembered or if it had disappeared into her changing mind, never to surface again. All I could do was hope that she lived and she was happy. I couldn’t leave to search for her, not unless I wanted to be picked up by Interpol or MI6. My hands were tied.

The last time I’d seen Lorelei Lansford clearly, was when she’d held me with bloodstained hands and declared her love. It wasn’t the perfect memory, but it was all I had, and I clutched to it like a life raft in the middle of a storm.

“Mr.?” Lamar prodded.

“What is it?” I asked, a little shaken by my memory of the love I’d lost not once but twice.

He set down his sanding block and pointed down the beach.

Following his gaze, I stilled as I caught sight of a slender woman walking toward us. Her skin was pale, her bare arms and neck covered in intricate designs. Designs that I knew she’d put there for some kind of spiritual protection in the wake of the scars that had changed her.

Her hair had grown since I’d last seen her. It swept around her shoulders in soft waves, the bright Caribbean sun bringing out the flecks of red that ran through the chestnut coloring.

Dropping my sanding block, I stepped forward, wondering if the image before me was a mirage. My heart began to beat faster and faster, pounding inside me like a hammer as I walked down the sand to meet her.

Finally, she stood before me, glowing like an angel, her smile wide.

Reaching up with a trembling hand, I cupped her face. She was solid, warm, and very real.

“What took you so long?” I murmured, my voice almost lost in the sound of the ocean lapping at the shore.

“I had to be sure,” Lorelei replied, leaning into my touch.

I cocked my head to the side. “Sure of what?”

“Forever.”

A
mity Cross
isn’t
her real name. That’s no secret.

She is the author of wicked stories about rock stars looking for redemption, gritty romances featuring MMA fighters and dark tales of forbidden romance. She loves to write about screwed up relationships and kick ass female leads that don’t take s**t lying down.

Amity lives in a leafy country town near Melbourne, Australia and can be found chained to her desk, held at ransom by her characters.

Don’t send help. She likes it.

• @amitycross
  
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