It takes every ounce of self-control not to jump out and knock the teeth out of everymudakstaring at her. Their eyes follow her like hungry dogs, and I know exactly what filthy thoughts are running through their pea-sized brains.Yob tvoyu mat’, I want to gouge their eyes out.
“D? You there?” Erik’s voice fades into background noise.
Wren approaches a weathered building with a faded sign that reads “The Rusty Nail.” It’s a dive if I’ve ever seen one—peeling paint, windows clouded with decades of cigarette smoke. The kind of place where hope goes to die.
She pushes open the door, and I catch a glimpse of the interior. Dim lighting, worn leather booths, the glint of bottlesbehind the bar. A few regulars stumble in after her, looking like they’ve been pickling themselves here since the Cold War.
Through the filthy window, I see Wren lean against the bar. Some greasy-haired fuck says something, and she throws her head back, laughing. The movement makes her tits strain against her tight tank top, threatening to spill out.
My cock twitches, and I feel the blood rushing south.Fuck. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
Blyat.This pisses me off. I can’t stand seeing those filthy assholes talking to her, let alone her having to entertain them.
“Dimitri!” Erik’s shout snaps me back.
“What now?” I hiss into my phone.
“Tell me where you really are.”
“I told you, I’m—” I stop mid-lie because two guys just walked in. Big fuckers, way too clean-cut for this shithole. They’re scanning the room like they’re looking for something.
Orsomeone.
“Gotta go,” I mutter, hanging up on Erik’s protests.
I watch as the two gorillas make their way to the bar. One of them says something to Wren, and I see her stiffen.
My hand’s on the door handle before I can think. But I stop myself. My jaw clenches tight.
I’m not her fucking knight in shining armor.
So, I keep myself in the car, fighting the burning urge to tear the door off and get out.
The men walk out, and I light up a cigarette, watching them like a hawk. Russians. I can tell by their build, the way they carry themselves. Who the fuck are they?
Wren bursts out of the bar, face pale as death. She’s on her phone, frantically looking around. Scared. It’s not a good look on her.
I follow her gaze. The Russians are heading down an alley where a car’s parked.
Blyat. She’s going after them.
“Don’t do it,krasotka,” I mutter. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”
But, of course, she does. She takes off running, disappearing down the alley.
“Yob tvoyu mat’!” I snarl, slamming my fist against the dashboard.
Before I know it, I’m out of the car, stalking toward the alley. My hand’s already on my Glock.
Looks like I’m getting my fight, after all.
15
Wren
The air reeks of cheap grease and gasoline, making my nose wrinkle.
It’s summer. The sun’s a fucking joke, barely hanging on to the sky like it’s too tired to keep shining. Shadows crawl across the shithole we call home, stretching over rusted trailers and patchy dirt yards.
