He starts toward me, face hard, jaw clenched, and dark blue eyes narrowed. I’m still buzzing from the attack and howeverything’s gone down in what probably wasn’t even ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes agoI was probably in the pub bathroom brushing my teeth.
Now I find myself alone with an Irish enforcer who’s stalking toward me as if I’m his enemy. Not the men he just kicked out of the pub.
One thing’s for sure—we’ve made a mess of the place. Broken glass is scattered everywhere you look from the many bottles that have been broken, and several tables and chairs have been overturned. Some of those are broken too.
I’m still on the floor where the Russian flung me. My hands are cut up from the tiny shards of broken glass, and my cheek is throbbing from the brutal backhand I took. Pretty sure it’s swelling up already.
“You alright?” Killian asks gruffly as he closes the gap between us. He extends his arm as if he’s about to help me up.
I rush to push myself to my feet first.
The room tilts for a second, another brief wave of dizziness passing over me. I force myself to stand up straight anyway, even though every part of me wants to collapse again.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, brushing glass and debris off my sweatpants.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Well I am. Thanks for your concern.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, his narrowed blue eyes studying me. “What the fuck was that?”
I shrug, my expression as neutral as possible despite the panic inside me. “How should I know? They were obviously here to rob the place.”
“Bullshit.”
“Bullshit as in what?”
“Bullshit as inbullshit.” He takes a step closer, forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him. The man is a damn giant,and up close he’s even more intimidating than he was from across the bar. “That wasn’t a robbery. They weren’t after cash or liquor. They were after you.”
I fall silent, unable to deny the accusation but too stubborn to admit it. My attention redirects to studying a scrape on the palm of my left hand.
…not that it even matters considering Killian’s interrogation has officially begun.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands in a low growl. “What kind of shit are you waist deep in to have the Bratva coming for you?”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a server trying to?—”
“Hang on a damn second,” he grunts suddenly. He takes yet another step closer as his eyes shrink into thin slits and he stares down at me as if he’s cracking a code. He’s deciphered whatever it was he was trying to piece together.
It’s enough to make a girl self-conscious as gooseflesh prickles my skin and I blink uncertainly, tempted to back away and put distance between us.
“You’re the girl from the news,” he says. “One of the women who escaped from the Vodka Room.”
My heart freezes midbeat. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do. You’re one of the Bratva’s trafficking victims. It’s been all over the fucking news. Your face was plastered on every channel for days.”
I’m half tempted to be delusional enough to deny it. Insist he’s got the wrong girl.
It’s not me he’s thinking of, and he’s simply confused.
But as I peer up into his gritty, scowling face, I know there’s no way to spin another lie. He damn near sees straight through me. He knows exactly who I am, and there’s no running from it.
So I do what I often do when I’m overwhelmed and come up blank—I stay quiet and don’t say anything.
My gaze drops from his, and I wish I were alone again in the stockroom.
