Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(67)
I smile into his chest. “Maybe an orgasm is the cure for PTSD.”
“Or maybe the little boss bitch Khaleesi’s got nothing on my waif.”
“Waif?”
“That’s what I call you in my head sometimes. The demon waif.” After a beat, he says, “Is that bad?”
“Let me overthink it for a minute.”
“Because I don’t want you to be offended.”
“Oh, sure. Who would be offended by being described as a skinny stray from hell?”
“It’s interesting how you made that sound like a death threat.”
“I’m multitalented. Wait until you see me juggle chainsaws while aiming a flamethrower at your head.”
He laughs again. Because I’m pressed against his chest, I feel the rumble of it beneath my cheek and can’t help but smile.
He cups my jaw in his hand, turns my face up to his, and tenderly kisses me.
“Tell me I didn’t hurt you. I’ll never forgive myself if I did.”
I know he isn’t talking about his hideous nickname for me. I gaze into his beautiful eyes, smiling. “Only in the best way.”
When he cocks a brow, I clarify. “I’ll probably be sore. A lot sore. You’re not exactly…let’s just say your dragon isn’t tiny like me.”
He rolls to his back, taking me with him, and laughs and laughs as I lie on his chest and gaze down at him, amazed.
Who is this happy assassin? Where did my growling, scowling Malek go?
“You’re very giggly all of a sudden.”
He stops laughing and looks at me. “Giggly?” he repeats, insulted.
“Sorry. You’re right, manly men like you don’t giggle.”
“Exactly.”
He tries to scowl but fails miserably. His lips curve up into a smile instead.
I reach up and trace the outline of his mouth, finding it impossible not to smile back at him. “I’m curious. How does someone born and raised in Russia speak English without an accent?”
He passes his hand through my hair, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as the strands flow through his fingers.
“Because when that someone travels the world using different passports and identities, it’s helpful not to sound Russian. My size makes me stand out enough as it is. I practiced for a long time to sound like I came from nowhere in particular.”
The man with no past and no future who comes from nowhere and lights a girl’s heart on fire with only the force of his pale green eyes.
What a fascinating mystery he is.
I fold my hands over his chest and prop my chin on top. When I stare at him for too long, he says, “What?”
“How old are you?”
That amuses him. His smile deepens, and his eyes dance with laughter. “Why do I get the feeling this is just the beginning of a long and arduous interrogation?”
“It’s called conversation. I ask questions, and you answer them.”
“No, that’s interrogation. In a conversation, the questions go back and forth.”
“You’ll get your chance. I’m going first.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
I reach up and touch his beard. It’s soft and springy under my fingertips, delightfully crisp. If he ever shaves it off, I’ll kill him.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Never mind. Back to my question about your age.”
“I’m thirty-three.” After a pause, he adds, “Your eyes just got big.”
“You’re nine years older than me.”
“Really? You look younger than that by years.”
“It’s all the preservatives in the candy. What’s your favorite color?”
“Black.”
“Shoulda guessed. What do you do in your free time besides watch American crime dramas?”
“Come here as often as I can. Hunt. Read. Hike. Watch the stars. When I’m in the city, I don’t do much except handle work.”
“Work.”
He nods. I get that he won’t describe the nitty-gritty.
“And how did you get into your line of work?”
He inhales deeply and looks at the ceiling. After he exhales, he’s quiet for a while. “By accident.”
“Meaning?”
He closes his eyes. A muscle slides in his jaw. “I killed a man in a bar fight when I was seventeen.”
He’s silent again. Lost in memory. I can tell whatever he’s remembering is painful for him and wait quietly for him to continue as I stroke his beard.
“He was harassing my brother. Mikhail wasn’t a big guy. And he was quiet. Smart and quiet. The kind of kid bullies gravitate to. We were on a family trip with our parents, visiting our aunt in Moscow. Mik and I went to a bar after our parents went to bed. I came out of the restroom and found this asshole talking shit to Mik. I told him to fuck off. He didn’t like that. Threw a punch that missed. I threw one back that connected. Next thing I know he’s on the floor, face covered in blood, not moving. He never got up.”
Drawing a slow breath, he opens his eyes and looks at me. “He was Bratva. First cousin of Pakhan, just my fucking luck.”
“Pakhan?”
“It’s an honorific title. Means the big boss. King. Everyone in the bar knew the guy I hit was connected. Before the police could get there, Pakhan rolled up with a dozen of his soldiers. Said me and my whole family could eat bullets to pay my debt, or Mik and I could go to work for him. Obviously, he didn’t like his cousin much, or we would’ve been dead on the spot.