I know that look. No, don’t let him fuck with you.
“It’s steady work,” I continue, filling the awkward silence. “Good tips. No one trying to stuff singles in my G-string. Can’t complain.”
D’s eyes darken at the mention of my G-string. I shift, suddenly very aware of how close we are. The room feels too small, too fucking hot.
I clear my throat, desperate to change the subject. “So, how’s the bullet hole and knife wound? Still leaking, or did Dr. Tits McGee patch you up nicely?”
“Dr. Tits… McGee?” D’s lips twitch, almost a smile.
I drain my glass fast, setting it on the nearby desk with a little too much force. “Look, D. I didn’t come here for small talk. I came to tell you to back off.”
D just stares at me, his eyes going dark.Fuck. It’s like looking into a shark tank, and I’m the chum. I feel my anger rising, pissed that I’m getting pulled into his orbit again.
“This whole…whateverthe hell this is,” I gesture between us, “I want out. No more mafia shit in my life. I’ve got a good gig at the bar, and I don’t need you screwing it up.”
D steps closer. I have to crane my neck to look at him.
Fucking giant.
“That what you really want, Wren?” His voice is low, rough.
My throat’s dry as sandpaper. “Yeah. That’s what I want.”
Real smooth, dipshit.
He leans in close, his breath hot on my ear. “Bullshit.”
A shiver runs through me. I slap a hand on his chest to push him away, but my fingers grab his shirt instead. Traitors.
“D,” I growl, not sure if I’m warning him or myself.
His lips graze my neck. I clamp my jaw shut to keep from moaning like a bitch in heat.
“Tell me to stop,ptichka. Say you don’t want this.”
I should. But I don’t. Instead, I tilt my head, giving him more access. Fucking idiot.
D’s hands grab my hips, yanking me against him. He’s hard. Real hard.
“Fuck,” I spit out.
He chuckles, and I feel it in my bones. “That’s the plan.”
55
Dimitri
2 days later
Chert.The night air is cold, biting through my jacket as I step out of the SUV.
Erik and Oleg are already out, their eyes scanning the area.
This place—the old shipping yard—smells like oil and rust. It’s deserted, just a heap of rotting metal and shadows, perfect for the kind of business we’re about to handle. Skull Collector’s hideout is dead ahead, buried in the shell of an old factory, like rats hiding in the bones of something long dead.
“Quiet,” Oleg mutters, his voice low, sharp. He moves with that ice-cold precision of his, every step calculated. “They’re in there.”
Erik cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders, the sound echoing in the quiet. He’s got that cocky smirk plastered on his face, the one that always grinds my gears.
