“Quinny. Quinn.” My voice is barely above a whisper, and instantly, she catches on we’ve got a possible situation.
She rubs her eyes, looking more alert with each passing second. I used to tease her about being dead asleep one second, then instantly alert the next, and now I’m grateful because she knows immediately that she needs to be as quiet as possible.
“There was a noise downstairs. Santiago and the other dog have gone to investigate.”
She climbs off the bed, and I don’t pass up the opportunity to check her out. I mean, that is why we’ve got the black dog; he’d go nuts if anyone was close enough to attack. And that means I get all the pieces in between with her, as her guard, of course.
Quinn has an incredible body. Legs that go on for days, but they’re not deathly skinny, like you see on models. They’re perfectly in proportion to how a fit and healthy woman should look, and I’ve run my tongue up them on more than one occasion to confirm how good they are.
Her eyes are on my face, and I’m not going to pretend she didn’t catch me. She’s always known I’m a sucker for her. After folding up the legs of an oversized pair of sweats, she tucks herself against me, flooding me with her scent.
And because we’re alone, and maybe about to die—though the probability is zero on that—I have my hands buried in her hair before she’s taken a breath. “Quinny, I’m so sorry. I hate myself that I hurt you. I am never leaving your side. And one day, I’m going to give you the chance to try to make me come, because you are, and always will be, my absolute favorite whore.”
I get to watch the effect of my promise. It happens first in her eyes, desire seeping through and darkening them. Her cheeks flush candy pink, somehow accentuating the galaxy of freckles dusting her skin. And then I get to watch her regain control of her own, equal, unspoken obsession with me, blinking this thing we share away until I’m left looking into her deep ocean-blue eyes.
A playful smirk tugs at her plump lips. “You’re the best friend a girl could ask for.”
I force my fingers to relax, then make a concerted effort to memorize how her silky soft hair glides over my hand. If this is my last touch, it’s practically poetic. But that’s Quinn—making things feel so much more intense.
I watch the last strand fall and take a deep breath, closing my eyes and becoming who she needs me to be.
Pushing her behind me, I crouch down in front of her and unholster my gun. “Do you have a weapon?”
The quick shake of her head flames anger in my gut. It’s another reason to hate the prick she’s marrying.
A series of thuds and grunts reaches us in her room. I know she heard them as soon as I did because her tension presses against my skin like sandpaper. Her scent sharpens, and I hear her take a long, deep exhale to settle her nerves.
The dog is a statue as he stands on the bed. I use him as a guide to where the action is and how close it is to us.
More fighting echoes back to us. There’s no shouting or speaking, but grunts and groans of effort and pain filter back, followed by an excited yip of the other dog before the unmistakable shout of an Alpha’s bark breaks the silence. “Roshka!”
The dog on the bed responds. His muscles bunch, and I triple-check Quinn is behind me, flicking the safety off.
“Roshka!” Another shout, and the dog barks in return.
Quinn does the strangest thing; she drops her forehead to my back.
“What is it, Quinn?” I demand.
“It’s him,” she says quietly, not moving away.
“Who?”
“Sergey’s second.”
“I kind of need to know if he’s a good guy or a bad one, Quinn.”
I swear I hear her say, “I wish I knew.”
I don’t get the chance to double-check because her door opens slowly, the tan-colored dog doing it with her snout as she walks in. But now that the door is open, Quinn and I get to see Santiago and the other Alpha locked in a brutal, and eerily similar, stance. Their bodies are rippled with tension and pulsing danger as they grip each other, making it hard for either to move an inch. Their faces are contorted by their focus and promise of violence to each other, the barrels of their respective guns pressed under the chin of the other.
They’re in a stalemate, although my gun aims on the newcomer, so no longer a stalemate, as such.
I stay still, and so does Quinn. Even the dogs are unmoving as we take in the scene. The newcomer is an Alpha. It’s as easy to see as his anger. Despite the gun under his chin, he searches the room for Quinn, the same way Santiago does—desperately.
Once he sees her, his posture changes, and it’s almost like his presence grows along with his bulk. It must be a twist of light, but it’s intimidating to watch how he becomes more as his entire focus shifts to Quinn. “Are you okay?”
It’s the concern in his heavily accented Russian that stops me from blowing his fucking brains out. And then it’s Quinn’s soft “yes” that has me flicking the safety back on.
