Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(60)

“Why?”

“They missed a protection payment. One.” His tone turns deadly. “And for that, they were murdered.”

I turn around. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I search his face. It’s hard, closed-off, and a little scary. I whisper, “You were there, weren’t you? You saw it happen.”

A muscle slides in his jaw. He doesn’t answer. He simply adjusts the spray and tilts my head back into it to rinse the shampoo out of my hair.

After a tense moment, he continues. “After that, I dropped out of school and started working full-time in the shop.”

“At fifteen?”

“I had two younger sisters to look after. And no relatives—my parents left everyone behind when they emigrated from Russia. They barely spoke any English when they arrived, but they were hard workers. We didn’t have much, but it was enough. But with them gone, I was the man of the house. It was my duty to take care of my sisters.”

I recall how he said it was his duty and pleasure to take care of me and think I understand that a little better now.

He grabs the bar of soap and starts to wash me, gently and methodically, getting in all my nooks and crannies until my face is flushed. As he rinses me, he keeps talking.

“The day I turned sixteen, two men came into the shop. I recognized them from before. They were the same two who shot my parents. They said they’d given me time, out of respect for the dead, but now it was my turn to start paying them protection. When I told them to go to hell, they laughed at me. They stood right in the middle of my parents’ shop and laughed. So I shot them.”

Finished with me, he begins to soap his chest.

I gape at him in horror.

He says, “I knew who to call to take care of the bodies. It wasn’t the police, of course. It was the Russians. The Irish weren’t the only ones with tight community connections. Though my father wasn’t a made man, he was respected. After his death, the head of the Russian mafia made it known that if I needed him, I could count on him.”

There’s a short, weighted pause. “For a price.”

“You mean Maxim Mogdonovich?”

Surprised, Kage glances at me with sharp eyes. “Yes.”

“Sloane told me.”

“Stavros must’ve been talking.”

It sounds ominous the way he says it. I don’t want any blood on my hands, so I clarify.

“I don’t know if he did or not. Maybe she overheard something. Or she looked it up on the internet. She’s savvy that way, with research. She knows a lot of random stuff.”

He smiles, turns me the other way, and rinses himself under the spray.

It’s like watching porn.

Soap slides sensuously over acres of rippling muscles. Strong hands run up and down his broad, tattooed chest. He tilts his head into the water, closes his eyes, and rinses his hair, giving me a great view of his beautiful neck and biceps, his pecs and rock-hard abs.

Then he shakes his head like a dog, spraying water everywhere.

He turns off the water and says, “You’re very loyal to your friend.”

“She’s my bestie. It’s required.”

“Do you think she has real feelings for Stavros?”

That would be a no. Men are like goldfish to her: they make cute pets, but they’re indistinguishable from one another and replaceable at little to no cost.

But I’m not about to tell that to Kage, considering his penchant for shooting people.

Eyeing him warily, I say, “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

He chuckles. “Don’t be so suspicious. I’m just curious.”

“Let’s just say she’s not exactly a romantic.”

Kage takes my face in his hands. He gazes at me, his lips curved into a tender smile. “Neither was I. She just hasn’t met The One yet.”

My mouth goes dry. My pulse surges.

Is he telling me I’m The One for him? I mean, obsession and true love are two very different things.

But I’m not brave enough to ask, so I change the subject. “Your shoulder is leaking again.”

He glances at it and frowns. “How good are you with a needle?”

I feel the blood drain from my face, but gird my mental loins. If he needs me to stitch him up, I’ll do it.

I take a breath and straighten my shoulders. “I’m sure I can manage.”

He grins at the grim expression on my face. “I know you can. You can manage anything.”

The pride in his voice makes me glow. I’m probably blinking dreamily at him with little red confetti hearts for eyes.

We get out of the shower, and he dries us off, carefully blotting my hair with the towel, then even more carefully combing his fingers from it from scalp to ends to get the tangles out. Even when I tell him there’s a comb in the drawer, he wants to use his hands.

“You have a thing for my hair, don’t you?”

“I have a thing for all of you. Your ass is a close second to your hair. Or maybe your legs. No—your eyes.”

Pretending to be insulted, I say, “Excuse me, but I’m more than the sum of my body parts. I actually have a personality, too, in case you haven’t noticed. And a brain. A very big brain, as a matter of fact.”

Except when it comes to algebra, but I don’t count that, because it’s ridiculous.