“You’re welcome, Mr. Sunshine,” she finally said, her tone honey-sweet with a shot of venom.
Slowly and deliberately, I dragged my attention away from my phone. Our gazes locked. “Tell me,” I said, raking my eyes over her from head to toe, “do all the girls from whatever backwoods shithole you crawled out of flap their mouths this much? Is that how they taught you to speak at the Possum Hollow Charm School?”
Unfair? Absolutely. But exhaustion had no filter. I was running on fumes and fury, and between the sleepless nights, the constant lies, and the bodies piling up, I’d snapped. So I’d aimed my bitterness at the nearest target. And Lyla had taken the hit.
Her smile dropped.
Then came the fire.
She leaned in, placing her hand on the center of the table, and with a voice low and sweet enough to rot teeth, she purred, “Wellnow, isn’t that rich, coming from a man who speaks English like he’s strangling on barbed wire. That accent’s thicker than your skull and twice as arrogant. Tell me, is demeaning women the national pastime where you’re from? What’s next? Teaching women their place with your fists and calling itculture?”
My jaw ticced.
But she wasn’t finished. Moving close enough that I could feel her breath on my lips, she said, “And while we’re judging accents, you might wanna wipe that murdery glint outta your eyes, mister. You aren’t foolin’ anyone with your expensive suit and newspaper. You look more like a Johnny Cash wannabe thug than anyone with an ounce of class. What are you, some KGB reject because you couldn’t spellintelligenceeven if it were carved into your vodka bottle? Did you flunk out of spy school and have to settle for criminal work instead?”
I leaned back, studying her with fresh eyes.
She wasn’t stupid. Just dangerously unaware.
A little lamb, tempting the wolf.
“You talk a lot for someone so…breakable.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You threatening me, Boris?”
“I don’t threaten.” I smirked. “I promise.”
She straightened and crossed her arms. “You think you’re scary, but I’ve known worse men with dirtier hands and prettier lies than you, men who don’t need a Russian accent to make a girl afraid. I’ve met frat boys with more bark than you.”
I let a slow smirk pull at my mouth. “You’ve known boys who play rough. I’m not a boy. And I don’t play.”
She bit her bottom lip. Nervous tic or calculated move, I couldn’t tell, but it drew my eyes down to that goddamn mouth of hers. Soft. Full. Screaming to be ruined.
“You’re full of yourself,” she snapped, clearly catching my stare. “But let me guess. You think girls like me should be seen and not heard, right?”
“No,” I said coolly. “I think girls like you should be fucked face down until that pretty mouth learns when to stay busy and when to stay silent—until obedience stops being a choice.”
Her lips parted. Shock, maybe. Rage, definitely.
She hated me. I could see it all over her. And still, my cock stirred like it wanted to teach that mouth its place. So much fire in such a tiny thing. I wanted to throw gasoline on her ire—watch her burn and beg at the same time.
Before she had a chance to unload on me, Carmine barreled out of the back like he’d been summoned by Satan himself.
“Miss Oakley!” he shouted, loudly enough for the entire place to hear. “Back counter. Now.”
She shot me one last glare but didn’t argue, just spun on her heel and stalked off, muttering something about fascists and psychopaths.
Carmine, already sweating, turned to me and ran a hand down his face. His tie was crooked, and the color in his cheeks said he knew damn well how badly she’d overstepped.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Volkov,” he said in a low voice. “She’s new on mornings—been working lunches mostly, when family men are never around. She’s not used to…your sort.”
I arched a brow.
“She came with good references,” he rushed on. “I hired her quick—small-town girl, desperate for work. Sweet manners, good with the regulars. You know how people are—they like a little charm with their caffeine. I thought she’d be harmless.”
I reached for my cup. “You thought wrong.”
