I was shocked too—and fucking pissed I’d let myself kiss the girl I was supposed to be protecting.
She has panic attacks at random. Strangers, especially men, seem to trigger her. For months she’s been on the run. For years before that she suffered at the hands of Fedorov Raguzin and the Bratva.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
Even worse, I’m still thinking about it hours later. I’m imagining her lips brushing against mine and remembering how delicate her jaw felt as I cupped it in my large, calloused hand.
Frustration boils inside me as my mind refuses to cooperate by forgetting the moment. It drives me to beat the shit out of this bag like it owes me money.
I shouldn’t be thinking about kissing Jhene.
The girl’s cute, with glasses too large for her face and frizzy spiral curls she never bothers to tame. I’ll admit that much.
I’ve got eyes.
She’s a pretty girl—a very pretty girl. Fucking beautiful in a natural way, even as she seems to shy away from acknowledging she is.
With her frizzy curls and large glasses, she doesn’t try to meet anybody’s standard. She presents herself as is, take it or leave it. That in itself is so fucking attractive.
So goddamn…sexy.
But it’s twice the mindfuck that—objectively speaking—the girl is beautiful without the gloss to her lips or the push-up bra or any other frills.
She’s got a heart-shaped face with small, round featuresand deep eyes that remind me of coffee. She’s got the softest lips, which are usually arranged in a flat line but sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’m gifted the chance to see them stretch into a smile.
In her plain T-shirt and jeans with chewed up nails and scuffed sneakers, I can’t get enough. I look at her and see a woman I’ve become increasingly drawn to.
Attracted to despite my best efforts.
Her personality only makes it worse. It’s both off-putting and addictive—prickly and guarded at first meet, then with flashes of dry humor that are brilliant.
I find myself waiting for her quips. Even looking forward to them.
I think about her more than I should. Way more than I should.
What the hell does any of that mean?
I don’t fucking know. I’ve never been good at this shit. Women are complicated, and I’m as simple as it gets.
Give me a target to hit and I’ll hit it. Give me a problem to solve with my fists and consider it done. But this? This is uncharted territory.
“You trying to kill that bag or just maim it?”
I glance over to find Malone watching me from the edge of the ring, one brow raised and his arms hanging off the ropes. He’s in his fifties now, a former middleweight who’s managed to stay in decent shape despite the years and the large amounts of liquor. Not the biggest guy in the room, but he’s one of the best trainers in the city.
“Just working out some tension,” I grunt, throwing another combination.
“Uh huh. You’ve been at that bag for forty-five minutes straight. Whatever’s on your mind, you might wanna deal with it before you break something. Preferably not your hands—you’ve gota fight coming up.”
The fight. Right.
The Tank is in two weeks, and I’ve been training like shit as of late. Too distracted by clan business and the rising tensions with the Bratva.
That’s aside from a certain stubborn girl with glasses who’s a constant on my mind.
At least I’ve managed to get some payback for Tom.
Me and a few of the boys tracked down two of the four bastards who firebombed the Banshee. Took them to our warehouse in Red Hook and had ourselves a little fun. By the time we were done pouring acid on them, they were even more deformed than they left Tom.
