Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(21)

The judgmental sons of bitches.

I decide to take a hot bath to try to scrub my humiliation away. It doesn’t work, but at least I’m clean and a shade less weepy. I polish off another box of candy, spend a millisecond worrying about tooth decay, then brush and floss my teeth, turn out the lights, and climb into bed.

I must fall asleep, because I find myself sometime later staring up into the darkness with my heart pounding wildly from the terrifying sense that someone else is in the room with me.

There’s no sound. No movement. Not a single breath disturbs the air.

But there’s the distinct scent of the woods and a big fucking presence.

I sit bolt upright in terror, clutching the sheets to my chest and hoping one of Declan’s guards will hear my scream before my body is hacked into a million pieces.

Shaking all over, I suck in a deep breath—

“Don’t scream, malyutka. I won’t hurt you. I give you my word.”

The voice is deep, rich, and hypnotic, and one I instantly recognize.

Oh my fucking god, it’s him! It’s him, it’s him, it’s him!

He’s in my bedroom, and it’s him!

I start to hyperventilate so badly, I’m in immediate danger of passing out.

“Thank you.”

He’s thanking me for not screaming. What he doesn’t know is that I’m trying to, but my throat muscles are unwilling to cooperate. They’re frozen stiff with terror, like the rest of me.

Hearing a small rustle to my right, I jerk my head in that direction. Unfortunately, I’m not wearing my glasses. So even if the room were lit, I’d still see nothing but the watery blur I’m seeing now.

I knew I should’ve gotten LASIK when my optometrist suggested it.

“Why didn’t you leave when I gave you the money?”

“I was too busy being brain-fucked.”

That’s what I wanted to say, but what I actually produce is something along the lines of the sound an elephant might make giving birth. It includes a lot of awkward grunts and trumpeting.

“Breathe, malyutka. You’re in no danger from me.”

Except for the danger of my ovaries exploding at the same time my head does, you mean.

I don’t understand how the husky timbre of his voice can be both arousing and frightening, but I suppose I’ve always been good at multitasking.

I sit in bed with the sheets clutched in my fists, breathing like I’m in labor, until finally I regain enough control of my larynx and vocal cords to speak. “What’s that word you keep calling me?”

I know it’s not the most pressing question, but I’m under extreme duress, so I’m giving myself some slack on this one.

“Malyutka.”

He draws it out, enunciating the syllables. Whatever language he’s speaking, it’s masculine, rough, and sexual.

I hate myself for loving it.

“What does it mean?”

“Roughly…little one. Baby.”

I stop being terrified long enough to marvel at that.

I have a nickname?

Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger is calling me baby?

I clear my throat, desperate to understand what the hell is happening. “Um…uh…”

“Is the Irishman keeping you prisoner here?”

“Ha! How did you guess?”

Okay, that actually came out in normal words. And with my normal amount of blatant sarcasm. So I must not be as scared as I think I am.

Only I am. Holy shit, I’m scared. I’d make a run for it if I didn’t already know my damn legs were paralyzed by fear.

I’d take one step out of bed and fall flat onto my face and probably knock myself unconscious in the process.

“I can help you.” His voice lowers. “I want to help you.”

There was a slight emphasis on the word “want” that makes my skin break out into goosebumps. I go cold, then hot, then start hyperventilating again.

“I…I…” Frustrated with myself, I clear my throat and start again. “Whoever you are, you should leave. There are like a million armed guards around here.”

“I know. I’ve seen them.”

His tone is tranquil. He could care less about the armed guards.

Interesting.

We sit in silence until I run through the entire list of intelligent, clear-headed questions a person should ask in this kind of situation. Then I say brightly, “My name’s Riley. What’s yours?”

Someone please shoot me. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery. I’m the dumbest victim of an impending violent crime who ever lived.

Out of the watery darkness comes a sound that sends a cascade of shivers down my spine.

It’s a chuckle, sexy and masculine, rich and deep.

I’d like him to make that sound against the side of my neck.

Or maybe the inside of my thigh.

Or maybe I should go ahead and throw myself onto the nearest sharp object and spare the world another second of my incurable stupidity.

I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer my question, so I offer more remarkable proof of my total lack of intelligence by saying, “Your money’s on the dresser.”

Somehow, I made it sound like I’m offering payment to the gigolo who just serviced me sexually.

My cheeks flame with heat. “I mean, I assume that’s why you’re here. To get it back.”