Chapter 1
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IRIS
"I'm coming, I'm coming, Tessa! Don't rush in there, you and I both know those bastards will overpower you, so wait for me," I say as I end the call and continue to run down the street toward the factory. The cold Moscow air freezes my nose and ears off, my legs feel heavy, yet I push forward expertly avoiding a crowd of pedestrians blocking my path. My head throbs from last night's drinking, and the hot coffee in my hand is the only thing keeping me upright.
I sight a familiar alleyway, a short cut to the factory which is usually not as full at this time of the day as the main road I’m currently moving through. I lift my coffee to my lips letting the sugary milky sweetness warm my mouth, and pray it kicks in faster, because I was going to need the energy it provided.
Just as I am about to turn the corner, I collide with something solid enough to feel like a brick wall. The impact knocks the breath out of me and sends me stumbling backward, and for a moment I am completely sure I am going to faceplant on the pavement.
Instead, I feel strong arms wrap around me and hold me steady before I can hit the ground. My brain takes a second to catch up because walls do not have arms, and if they did, I would be in far more trouble than I already am.
Maybe all that drinking really is getting to me. I was aware I had an alcohol problem, but I did not realize that at twenty-seven I would already be on track for early-onset dementia.
I shake my head, trying to clear my vision. When I finally look up, my stomach drops because it is not a wall I crashed into, but a very intimidating man.
The first thing I notice is the scar across his neck that looks exactly like a slit throat, and the only thing I can think is that it must have hurt like hell.
He has blonde hair and light blue eyes, pale skin, a straight almost pointed nose, a sharp jawline, and lashes so long they should be illegal. It confirms my long-standing suspicion that God prefers handing out pretty features to men while leaving women to fend for themselves.
Looking at that beautiful face I can’t help but feel self conscious because I am sure I look like crap especially after last night’s drinking. I hope he’s too distracted by the brightness of my red hair to notice the purple rings beneath my eyes.
Usually, they’re my favourite feature but I have a feeling they look more like vampire eyes now with purple and red surrounding the forest green they usually are.
Even with all that ridiculous beauty, a cold sensation runs through me when I see the way his eyes sweep over my face and take in every detail of my body. He studies me so intensely that I forget how to breathe.
Then he speaks, and his voice sounds almost curious as he asks, "Are you an angel?"
I have no idea what to make of that.
Angels do not drag themselves out of bed after drinking to delirium.
Angels do not go on revenge missions while clutching a cup of hot coffee so strong it could kill a mortal.
Angels definitely do not carry iron baseball bats they bought at an auction and had to register as weapons because of one unfortunate incident.
If I were not such a good lawyer, I would still be dealing with the paperwork from that mess.
He still calls me an angel, which is strangely flattering, until I realize my hands are empty.
My half coffee cup is gone and based on the dark stains spreading across his very fancy clothing, I know exactly where it ended up. The man is wearing a fur jacket and, a navy-blue suit decorated with little noble-looking trinkets, the kind you only see in old aristocratic films.
I look down at my modest outfit. Black pencil skirt and green silk top to compliment my alcoholic eyes. This is bad. This is really, really bad.
I immediately try to pull away and say, "Sir, if I said I was an angel, would you let me pay one rouble for your suit's dry cleaning?"
He glances down at the coffee spreading over his clothes, and then his eyes lift back to mine. Even while holding me steady, he is enormous.
His shoulders fill my vision, his chest is broad beneath the fur jacket, and the way he moves makes it clear he's built like a professional WWE wrestler, someone in the league of Roman Reigns but somehow even larger.
His olive skin gives him an even deadlier edge, and I feel that cold wash over me again, I have a feeling that this man is not to be messed with.
Then he asks, "You're not hurt, are you, angel?"
I blink, startled, and respond quickly, "No, I'm fine. I'm really sorry I poured coffee on you."
He waves it off, saying it is no issue and that I should not worry about things like that. Clothes are replaceable, but skin lacerations are harder to heal.
