I roll my eyes and stick my arms in the air.
“Smart girl.”
He fiddles with the loose strap and starts tightening it. I shudder. His hands are calloused and feel rough against my skin, but somehow, I like it. They’re hot too, spiking my temperature even more than before. Which is screwed up. It’s unlike me to enjoy a man’s touch. Especially in a bizarre situation like this one. Whenever Sophia and I used to hit the club, I’d peel their disgusting hands away and decline their affections. Men can’t be trusted—simple as that. My body has always repelled the male species.
So, it doesn’t make sense that it’s warming to this stranger’s touch, especially that he’s the worst of his kind.
His hand brushes my shoulder blade.
A shiver runs up my spine.
Footsteps and distant chatter echoes from outside of the room, but it all dwindles away to the sounds of his breathing. He inhales deeply, hot air blowing against my skin on the exhale. He’s a nasal breather—of course he is. Probably wears mouth tape to bed or some shit to get his jawline that sharp. He’s clearly a man that prides himself on his appearance, which means he very well knows his effect on women.
If there’s one thing guys that look as good as him lack, it’s modesty. And integrity.
But at the end of the day, I’m a woman born to reproduce, so of course I’m going be turned on by the opposite sex when they’re tall, dark, handsome, and have the most captivating eyes.
Why is it always the bad guys that are attractive?
“You were saying something about a monster.”
I shove his hands away. “The groom.”
“Timur?” The man narrows his eyes at me for a second, and then shakes his head. “No. Timur is not a monster. Not in the way you think.”
That’s the thing—we think very differently. A psychopath’s brain doesn’t work the same as a normal human’s brain. He’s Bratva. That means he’s been conditioned to think that killing is fine. Murder and torture are work for them, and work is an everyday, mundane activity that employees don’t tend to question.
“It has nothing to do with what I think,” I say.
The man catches my eyes, awaiting elaboration.
“I lost somebody because of him.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His hands stop moving. He stares at me for longer than necessary, and I half expect him to offer his condolences.
“I don’t know who you lost, but I can tell you it wasn’t him.”
Convincing. If it wasn’t Timur Gusev, Sophia’s soon-to-be-husband, then who the hell was it? This guy maybe? I don’t know the logistics of organized crime, but I do know that they sign allegiance to their leader and kiss one another’s asses all the time.
I scowl at him. “Why would I believe you?”
“You are free to believe whatever you wish.”
I fold my arms over my chest. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve got anything to hide, given that he’s already seen one of two breasts.
“Look.” I stare up at him. “I’m not asking for much. Do whatever you want, but leave Sophia out of it. She’s innocent and doesn’t deserve—”
“Enough.”
Anger irritates my skin and makes it all itchy. This guy needs to take it down a notch. Punching his face is tempting, but I have a feeling it would only get me into trouble. I have enough on my plate already.
My skin feels cold now that his hands are no longer on me. I shouldn’t feel disappointed about that, but a small part of me does. As much as I hate the guy and everything he represents, it’s nice to be touched by a man who’s this good-looking.
But that isn’t number one priority today.
Taking advantage now that I’m no longer in his grip, I make a dash for it and beeline towards the door.
His hand appears out of nowhere, barring my path before I can exit the room.
