Bride of the Sea (The Prophecy of Sisters #2) - Hayley Faiman Page 0,2
my palm on the ground, I feel the wet moisture of the earth and grass beneath my fingertips and press my lips together, internally screaming.
I don’t know where I am, but I’m definitely not in my bed anymore. Gripping the ground, I hold on to the dirt as if it’s going to anchor me and give me answers. My heart is racing, it’s beating inside of my chest so hard that I fear it’s going to hop out of my body and land on the dirt at my side.
Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath, then let it out and attempt to truly take in my surroundings. It’s dark, but not pitch black, either early morning or late afternoon. There is a chill in the air that I know must mean I’m not in the city.
Then there’s the smoke. It’s hazy in the distance and I can smell the wood, it’s like a campfire. All I can think about, aside from being freaked out, is that a s’more would not be a bad thing right about now.
I debate standing up and walking toward the smoke, but my body is in a paralysis state. No matter how much I tell my brain to move my feet, nothing happens.
Shock. I must be in complete and total shock. Makes sense. This is some weird-ass shit.
There’s a noise. The sound of heavy footfalls, of heavy breathing, of crunching twigs and sticks echo all around me.
Then men’s voices.
I can’t understand what they’re saying. I’m not sure if it’s heavily accented English or another language. The blood that roars through my ears is keeping me from being able to think straight, let alone dissect what the fuck these guys are shouting.
Then, as if I’ve summoned them, I look up and I’m surrounded. My lips part in awe at the sight before me. The horses they’re riding are huge, the men are even bigger. They’re the biggest men I’ve ever seen in my life.
They all have varying degrees of long hair and beards. Most of them have blond or light brown hair. Their faces have paint on them, their chests bare, their legs covered in thick pants of some kind. They are all also covered in tattoos. Faces, heads, chests. Reluctantly, I decide that they are beautiful.
Their bare chests are broad, thick muscle covers their body. Muscles that aren’t earned in a gym, I’m not sure how they got these, and I’m not sure that I want to know, either. One horse steps forward, snorting as the rider pulls back on his reins slightly.
I really wish that my body would move, that I could stand up and run. Instead, I’m shivering, shaking, and cowering on my ass. The rider of the horse throws his legs over and I watch as he dismounts from the beast.
Tilting my head back, I look up at him as he approaches me. He’s the most beautiful of all the men, but also the most terrifying. He’s covered in dirt and blood, his hair a matted mess, his eyes so light blue that they look like water. Black swirling tattoo designs adorn one side of his chest, his face and his head. It’s sexy as shit.
I watch as he crosses his arms over his broad chest and looks down his nose at me. Someone says something, but he doesn’t respond with anything other than a quick shake of his head, his eyes never leaving mine.
He begins to crouch down in front of me. He’s bigger than I first imagined, his body taking up my entire view. Digging my nails into the dirt, I have this urge to reach for him, to touch his light blond hair, to touch him.
Holding my breath, I press my lips together as he lifts his hand and reaches forward. I hear him speak, but I don’t understand him. I try not to scream as he pinches a piece of my hair between his fingers and rubs it back and forth.
“Bunafi?” he asks. “Llyne?”
Finding my voice, I cringe at how shaky and hoarse it is. I sound weak and I know from living in the city, sounding, appearing, thinking you’re weak, will get you in serious fucking trouble.
“I don’t understand you,” I whisper.
His brows rise, he releases my hair, standing up, and he yells something. His voice is so booming, so loud that I jump. Then, without a word, he bends down slightly, wrapping his hand around my bicep and roughly tugs me up to my feet.