“I wasn’t asking,” he grunts in interruption. “You’ve made your choice. Now you’re stuck with me ’til morning.”
With that, he pulls me out into the Brooklyn night, leaving the wreckage of the Banshee behind us.
FIVE
Killian
My apartment isn’tmuch to look at.
Five hundred square feet of cracked brick walls, a bed that barely fits my frame, some weights, and a punching bag hangs in the corner like a decorative item. The kitchen is more of a kitchenette, the counter space limited and the stove without a working oven.
There’s a small table with two chairs that serves as the best space I have for entertaining guests and a bathroom with a shower that runs lukewarm hot water on a good day.
The one closet I’ve got is stuffed mostly with gym clothes, boxing gear, and weapons I use for work.
The only real decoration is the poster of Muhammad Ali, the greatest boxer to ever live, taped above my bed. A reminder of what I’m chasing every time I step into the ring.
My place isn’t glamorous, but it’s mine. I’ve never given a shit what anybody thinks about it.
…’til now.
Jhene stands frozen in the doorway, her large dark eyes sweeping across the space as if she’s startled by how barren it is.Coming from a girl who apparently lived in a cage for some time, I should probably be offended.
She’s like everybody else who’s seen my place for the first time—surprised a boxer and mob enforcer who rakes in millions lives so…modestly.
Have my entire fucking life. Got a problem with it?
“Make yourself comfortable,” I grunt, dropping my keys on the kitchen table.
“Sure,” she mutters under her breath. As quiet as she is, the sarcasm in her voice is loud. “I’ll just pick a corner.”
I ignore her smart fucking mouth and kick off my sneakers. My T-shirt’s next, peeled off and tossed onto the bed because it’s damp with sweat and I’m too damn tired to care about laundry right now.
That’s when I notice she’s gone rigid.
Gaze stuck on me, she’s somehow shrank even smaller, like I imagine a tiny woodland creature would.
Right.
Probably not the most comfortable thing for a woman who doesn’t know me to watch me strip down like I’m alone. Especially a woman who just got attacked by three guys less than a few minutes ago and was once trafficked by the fucking Bratva.
“Sorry,” I mutter, the back of my neck burning. “Easy to forget I’ve got company.”
“Not by choice,” she answers in another mumble.
I bite back the urge to snap at her. She’s had a rough night. We both have. No point making it worse by being an asshole.
Moreof an asshole anyway.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” I say, walking around the side of my bed. “You’ve got ’til the morning to suffer through my presence. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she echoes coolly. “I’ll be gone the second you fall asleep.”
I turn to face her, crossing the cramped space to stand in front of her. She instinctually goes to take a step back but her hip bumps against the kitchen table. She’s left tilting her head up to look at me as I scowl and glare back down at her.
“An escape artist, are you?” I ask. “You escape the Bratva and you think it’ll be cake to do it with me?”
Her answer comes from the small breath she draws and the uncertain flicker in her eyes, glasses half down her nose.
