Page 7 of Jace
I thought I knew perfection in this world of digital, flawless filters and idealized images.
But then I met Jace Ryan.
In the flesh.
Like this…
“Viv,” he calls me out of my haze, gently pressing his forehead to mine. “Viv, did you hear me? I said let me help you.”
Like a steamy mirage in the arid desert of my life, I want to reach out and touch Jace’s granite, whiskered jaw.
He can’t be real.
He’s the manly illusion of everything you need. His soaring height blocks the searing sun. His hulking muscles offer a respite from danger. His skin is cool, chiseled, tan marble adorned in black ink. His smile is so inviting; he’s the sparkling oasis your scorched body needs.
He’s the rescue you’ve been searching for.
In photography, they teach us about angles and symmetry, and Jace is textbook perfection—the subject of masculine beauty.
Thick waves of brown hair, lovingly kissed by the sun. Eyes so blue, the ocean is jealous. Skin so smooth, bronze is taking notes. A face a Greek god would want to steal.
And his body?
It’s the kind you shouldn’t see naked because it would ruin all others for you. I’ve never seen it, but I know perfection when it’s hiding in plain sight, right in front of me.
But it’s not the outside that makes someone beautiful. I should know. My ex-husband is a model. A shell that’s as hard and hollow as a mannequin.
It’s Jace’s heart that’s breathtaking.
I know underneath his flawless, inked flesh, his heart is dark red like everyone else’s, but his beats so tender and sweet, his blue eyes radiate its warmth. They make me blink back tears at the sight of him.
That’s why hearing him now…
It’s not the Jace I know.
“Kill him?” I’m shocked. “You’d kill my ex-husband for me?”
My heart’s pounding as hard as my skull. Constant crying gives me headaches.
“I mean it, Viv.” He pulls back, kneeling before me. “I’ll kill him. I’ll do anything to protect you.”
“But you’re not mean like that, Jace. You wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
That’s not true.
I’ve seen Jace go from calmly reading an alien romance book one minute to seizing a male customer in a choke hold the next. Why? The man had told his wife she was fat.
I’ve watched Jace stoically eye a rowdy group of frat boys in the store before he leaped, holding two of them in a wall choke until they apologized for being rude.
I’ve admired him, confidently resisting the taunts of assholes trying to goad him because of his soaring size. Then, I’ve beamed, watching him bounce their skulls off the edge of Vale’s desk for harassing her.
Jace is a paradox.
He won’t start a fight, but he’ll end it, winning every time.
But kill someone for me?
His giant hand is so warm, holding my wet cheek. It’s making my body tingle while his cobalt eyes freeze with his correction.
