My neighbour stares down at me, rage curling his lip.
“Who hurt you?”
3
BRODY
“Come here. I’m going to protect you,” I add when she just blinks up at me with those dark-brown eyes I’ve been dreaming of.
She doesn’t move, so I hold out my hand, gentle like she’s a scared little cat. Moya koshechka, as I always call in the privacy of my mind. My pussy cat.
Caterina reminds me of a sweet tabby. Straight chestnut hair that is usually in a swishy ponytail that begs to be wrapped around my fist. She’s lithe and soft as a house cat. But she’s wary.
“I’m Brody Marchenko. I’m your landlord. We need to get you to safety.”
“But…”
“Now, before they come back.” I make my voice deeper and firmer. I allow the inference that she mustn’t be here, and yes, that’s the case. But mainly because I don’t want her to see me disembowel anyone who dared touch her.
“Okay,” she whispers, and her arm creaks from lack of use as she takes my hand. I draw her out, but as she steps, her knees buckle and I catch her, sweeping her into my arms.
It’s instinct, but oh god she feels so good, so right, tucked next to my heart. But this isn’t the moment to relish that as I back out of the wardrobe and then stride from her apartment.In the hallway, two of my men are waiting. I give them rapid instructions in Russian to secure her home and the building. They nod and rush to obey, expressions serious.
They know that failure isn’t a good option. I’m known as Dark Angel, and while I might not go in for ostentatious wealth and power displays like Westminster or Brent, I have silent, brutal strength and over a billion in assets that make me a dangerous person to cross.
“What…?” Caterina eyes my retreating men.
“It’s okay.” I carry her to the elevator, and once inside tell her, softly, “Press the button for the top floor.”
“But you need a code for the penthouse.”
“I have it.” Given this is my building, and the penthouse is mine.
I say the code and she presses it in, hand shaky. Then the doors slide open to my personal space and a little of my tension unwinds as we enter.
Caterina is finally here, and she’s safe.
“I can walk…” she murmurs, and I ignore her, holding her closer as I stride through the gorgeously-appointed rooms that she peeks at over my shoulder. In my en suite, I spot the comfortable but too-small armchair that the interior designer put in and I never fully understood the point of before now.
I set her down reluctantly and regard her, noting the drying blood and injuries.
“We need to get you cleaned up, and seen by a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” she objects weakly.
I roll my eyes as I stand and go to the cupboards that contain all the essentials. This is not the first time someone who lives in this building is bleeding. Usually, it’s me.
“Tell me what happened,” I instruct her, and gather supplies as she haltingly tells me. With dressings and sutures and all theitems needed, I kneel at her feet and listen while I clean her wounds.
The fucking Italians. As if they weren’t dead enough before. They’ve been causing trouble for me for months. A pesky fly I’ve been swatting at half-heartedly.
But this. This is different.
Touching Caterina isdifferent.
She’smine.
And any man who touched her is going to die.
