She swallows. “C-curiosity.” Her pulse is quick because I scared her, but it doesn’t grow faster when she answers.
I flip her wrist in my hand and brush my thumb across her pulse lightly to soothe away my harshness of a moment ago. “You really want the answer?”
Her pulse skitters beneath the pad of my thumb. I can tell by her wide eyes that she already knows the truth, and it frightens her, but she nods.
“Yes. I told you I was a killer when we met. It wasn’t a figure of speech.” My admission thuds onto the table between us like a heavy stone, crowding our plates and silverware, an ugly centerpiece no one wants to look at. “All of them deserved it, not that I believe that will save my soul.” I meet her gaze steadily. I resolved myself to being an executioner right after I dropped the first body for the Russian army. I never looked back. There’s a place in this world for men like me. We serve a purpose most aren’t willing to fulfill. But that place isn’t anywhere near Kayla Winstead. She’s far too pure. She’s not innocent, not weak, but she’s whole and undamaged. A man like me doesn’t belong in her bed or her life.
She still hasn’t spoken. I release her wrist and sit back in case she’s ready to throw her napkin on the table and run. I wouldn’t stop her.
“I’m not a nice man. I told you that when we met.”
Her lashes flicker over her eyes, like she’s trying to keep them wide, to keep tears from spilling. “Do you remember what I told you?”
I remember. I remember everything about that night. The way it felt to break her. The way it felt to hold her in my arms, afterward, and put her back together. The unspeakable sexual power that gave me.
I clear my throat. “You said you trusted me.”
She nods. “I still do.”
“Blossom.” It’s a sigh. Or maybe a prayer. I should set her free—right now—but I can’t bring myself to speak the words. I’m not ready to give her up. So instead, I say, “I promise I’ll let you go the moment you want out.”
She draws back, and I watch a shiver move through her.
“You’re scared,” I murmur, reaching for her fingers across the table and weaving mine through hers. “Are you scared of me?”
“No.” She shakes her head.
“Good. You’re safe with me, blossom. Always. You say the word, I back off. You know that, right?”
She has a safe word. I’m telling her it extends beyond our play. If—no, when—she says red to this relationship, it ends. Because I know that day will come.
3
Kayla
After dinner, I fish in my purse for my bottle of eye drops and shake it, but it’s empty.
Pavel watches, his face impassive. “You okay?”
“My eyes are itchy from allergies. I need to pick up some more eye drops. Maybe I can run to the drug store tomorrow.”
“I can go tonight,” Pavel offers. “There’s one on the corner. I’ll take you back to the room and walk over.”
“I can walk with you,” I protest, then quickly tack on a “Master.” It’s funny how much of a gentleman he is when we’re out of the bedroom.
“You want to walk over? In your heels?”
“Yes,” I say. The truth is, I don’t want to be separated from him. There’s so much emotional distance between the two of us still, I can’t stand any more physical. Especially when I only have him for a short weekend. I also don’t mind the heels. I have a high pain threshold—which comes in handy being Pavel’s slave.
“All right, blossom. Let’s go.” I hear the shrug in his voice. The doorman holds the door open for us, and we walk out. I shiver at the night air, and Pavel curses softly in Russian. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.” I step into his side, and he takes the hint, wrapping an arm around me and holding me close to his hip as we walk. He was right—there’s a drugstore just three-quarters of a block away, the neon sign shining, casting a blue glow on the sidewalk in front.
We step in. It’s busy with Friday night activity. People stopping in to pick up six-packs or snacks for wherever they’re going next. I find the eyedrops, and we walk up to the counter.
And that’s when everything goes sideways.
Pavel’s paying for the eyedrops when the guy behind us jostles me forward. Ravil’s face contorts in anger, and he starts to turn, then goes perfectly still.
The guy has a gun out. He points it jerkily between our heads at the clerk. “Give me all the money in the register.” He sounds panicked. Out of breath. God, why is he crowding me forward against the counter? Wouldn’t it have been better for him to wait until we’d paid and moved away?
I let out an involuntary wounded cow sort of sound—a soft lowing of fear. I think the sound scares the robber because he seizes me and pulls me against his doughy belly. His jacket smells of gasoline, and the zipper digs into my back. He wraps me into a headlock, still keeping the gun pointed at the clerk.
I choke on my gasp. Time slows as I take in the horrified expression on the clerk and the flash of danger in Pavel’s eyes.
Pavel doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the guy’s gun arm with his right hand at the same time he throat-punches him with his left. The gun points toward the ceiling and goes off. Screams sound all around us.
I wrench free, skittering back as Pavel slams the barrel of the gun against the guy’s temple. His head makes a horrible sound when it cracks against the floor, his limbs sprawled in every direction.
Pavel’s movements were as smooth as a choreographed movie fight. This isn’t his first rodeo by any means. Or even his fifth. He points the pistol at the guy’s face with obvious expertise. “You don’t fucking touch my girl.” His accent is thick, voice full of menace.
Chills race up and down my spine because I have zero doubts now that Pavel told me the truth: he’s a stone cold killer.
And then I review what he said. You don’t touch my girl. He did that for me. If the guy hadn’t touched me, would he still have acted?
The clerk behind the register mutters, “Whoa,” like he’s impressed.
It was damn impressive. Pavel’s moves couldn’t have been better choreographed if he was in a staged movie fight.
“Call the cops,” Pavel tells the clerk without looking away from the guy he’s aiming at.
Before I can catch my breath, another pistol emerges, this time from a guy at the door.
They were a team. This one can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years old. Thick dark curls hang in his face, and his gun hand shakes so hard I’m afraid he’ll accidentally shoot the whole place up. He points it at Pavel. “Drop the gun,” he orders, like he’s watched too much crime TV.
Pavel’s not impressed. In a clean sweep, he shifts the aim of his gun to the guy at the door, putting his foot on the chest of the guy on the floor, who is starting to rouse. “Put it down,” he minces.
“Y-you put it down,” the teenager insists. “Or I’ll shoot.”
“You’ll be dead before you pull the trigger,” Pavel advises him evenly. “I never miss a shot.” I believe him. The way he sights straight down his arm and his steady hold of the gun screams expert. Sureshot.