Volk
SONG: LIKE A VILLAIN BY BAD OMENS
I arriveat Lush at midnight. The club is empty, lights blazing bright, harsh fluorescents that wash out everything. A few men stand over a pool of blood that's already turning sticky at the edges. At least they've cleared the body. One less thing for me to handle. Aleksandr is here. Two of his men. Brad, the security guy, who actually has half a brain.
And her.
The world stops.
Just fucking stops.
She’s siting at a corner table, and I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at her like I've been hit in the chest with a bullet.
Beautiful doesn't cover it. Beautiful is too small a word for what she is. Dark hair falling around her shoulders. Eyes that could cut glass. A face that belongs in museums or dreams, other places I'll never be allowed to go. She's wearing jeans and a black sweater. Simple. Forgettable. Except there's nothing forgettable about her. She could be wearing a sack and I'd still be standing here like an idiot trying to remember how to function.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don't react to women. Haven't in years. They're tools or distractions or complications I don't need. But this one …
This one makes me want to burn down the world just to see her smile.
Focus. I need to focus.
I force myself to move. Force my body to cooperate. One foot in front of the other. I don't announce myself. Never do. Just walk through the space and watch them straighten. Watch their hands move away from their weapons. Watch them remember who the fuck I am.
But I'm not watching them.
I'm watching her.
The way she holds herself. Spine straight. Shoulders back. Like she's preparing for a fight. Her makeup is heavy—too heavy for this time of night. Like she's hiding behind it .
Or someone.
The thought should make me suspicious. Should trigger every instinct I've honed over the years of survival. Instead, all I can think about is what she'd look like without all that makeup. What she'd look like spread out beneath me. What sounds she'd make if I… Christ!
I'm losing my fucking mind.
Aleksandr stands when I approach. His companions follow suit. All of them nervous and attempting to look harmless. Hands visible and no where near their weapons.
Smart boys.
But I barely register them. My entire world has narrowed to the girl in the corner. The girl who killed a man with a heel. The girl who's looking at me like she's not sure if I'm salvation or damnation.
Both, probably.
I don't shake hands. Just nod at Aleksandr and let my gaze slide to her. Lock on her like a missile finding its target.
"So, this is the girl ?" I say. My voice sounds rougher than usual. Like I've been drinking gravel.
"This is Sofiya." Pride bleeds through Aleksandr's voice. Like he owns her. Like she's his to show off. Something violent twists in my gut. " She saved my life. Killed a man with a heel. Practically a professional hit."
Practically.
I pull out a chair from another table and sit backward , needing something between us before I do something stupid , my arms resting on the back . I lean close enough to see everything. The tremor in her hands she's trying to hide. The way her breathing is controlled—too controlled. The pulse in her throat beating just a fraction too fast. I want to put my mouth there. Right where her pulse hammers. Want to feel her heartbeat against my lips.
She's scared.
Good.
