Page 56 of Sinful Claim


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“Who the hell are you, fucker?” The man straddling me growls, spit from between his crooked teeth spewing like a sneeze over my face.

Clearly, these two men don’t run with the same crowd. How could they, when the handsome man in the suit outclasses the thug on top of me by a mile? The only similarity they have is a thick Russian accent.

Rather than replying, my unlikely savior only takes another long drag from his expensive cigar, puffing light blue smoke through the air like a curtain of mist. He looks so calm and collected, so unbothered that it’s almost psychotic.

Am I the only sane person here?

“You think I’m scared of you?” my attacker slurs. “Think you could be some hotshot white knight because you have a gun?”

“I didn’t ask, and I don’t care,” the suited man replies, his voice cold and deep, like water at the bottom of an untouched well.

Before any more words can be exchanged, he makes his move, lunging at the weight on top of me with the precision of a hungry panther. He grabs the man by the back of his shirt, yanking him off of me and flinging him against the wall so hard that I hear the man’s skull crack against the brick like a flowerpot.

As the limp body crumples against the wall, the suited man lifts his gun and fires a shot to finish him off.

I gasp at the deafening noise of the gun ringing around my ears, and then I close my eyes in horror at the stretch of silence that follows. I only open them when I feel my blouse being flung over my chest to reestablish some of my dignity.

My savior, or who I believe to be so, stands over me, his eyes scanning my body with almost the same hunger as my attacker. I don’t know what to make of him, only that he showed no remorse when shooting that awful man.

Pure adrenaline pumps through me, replacing any semblance of reason, anxiety, or anger. I feel cold, but detached from it, as though I’m looking down at myself from above just like the suited man is, matching his calmness as he takes a couple more puffs from his cigar.

I can see him better now, and I’m utterly captivated by the sharpness of his features. His jaw is cut like a dagger toward his chin, slicing his features into a dramatically masculine landscape. It’s as though God was showing off when he created that face, placing everything in such gorgeous perfection as though to say, “Look, you pathetic creature, there’s no way you could possibly turn down this divine creation, no matter how wicked he may be.”

And wicked he clearly is, with a frame so large and menacing that I should be afraid.

But instead, as my savior extends his hand and growls a throaty command to get up, I’m unable to feel anything but a subtle buzz of excitement in my lower belly.

I take his hand.

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