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“No, please,” I say, struggling against him. “You don’t understand. Rustik said this was okay, he said I can clear my head before the wedding, it’s fine, please—”
“Sorry, orders are orders—”
“Please, you’re making a huge mistake—” I look around wildly for anything, anyone, any way to escape as the door looms up and the thug prepares to pull me back inside.
When another person comes walking fast toward us from the back garden.
“Hey, you,” he says, his voice like an ice pick, a sharpened command.
Rustik’s goon even pauses, which is a shock in itself.
But what’s more surprising is the man himself.
He’s tall, athletic. Muscular in a lean and fit sort of way. He’s in a gray suit, the color matching his eyes. No tie, top button of his shirt undone. Sharp nose, sharp cheekbones, beautiful trimmed beard. A low, resonant voice.
Handsome. Stunning, actually. He puts Rustik to shame. Hell, this guy puts everyone in this entire house to shame. He’s so attractive it should be a freaking crime.
I’m shocked Rustik’s goon isn’t dropping down to his knees to worship this newcomer.
I certainly want to.
“You’re not allowed over here,” the goon says, evidently gathering himself. “Please, Mr. Crowley—”
Crowley? I know that name. It rings a gong somewhere deep in my awareness.
“Are you dragging the bride by her arm right now?” Crowley doesn’t stop coming. “Are you so stupid, so idiotic, so thickheaded that you’d actually manhandle your own boss’s future wife? You do realize she can make your life hell once this ceremony’s over, don’t you?”
That makes the thug pause. His grip slackens enough that I yank away, stumbling a few feet, before steadying myself against the wall.
The thug looks from me to Crowley, his mouth hanging open. “Uh, I wasn’t, I mean, I’ve got orders, nobody leaves through this door, nobody comes in through this door, and if anyone spots the bride, we’re supposed to take her back—”
I stifle a groan. Freaking Rustik had orders in case I tried to run already. That fucking bastard.
“Why don’t you let me escort Ms. Rostova back to the party,” Crowley says, putting a hand on my arm, but he doesn’t grab on. “You can stay here.”
The thug looks uncomfortable. “I really shouldn’t—”
“Tell Rustik that Liam said it was fine.”
It hits me like a truck.
Liam Crowley. Youngest son of the Crowley dynasty, the most powerful crime organization on the East Coast. I’d heard he was in Portland, but nobody was saying why. Even Papa seemed a little wary of the guy.
Now I can see why. Liam’s got a presence, like he’s a weight standing on my chest. Rustik’s goon clearly isn’t up to the challenge of defying him. Before the thug can say anything, Liam steers me away toward the back yard.
“Right inside!” the thug calls out.
Liam ignores him. I say nothing, only let him guide me away, toward the shrubs blocking the expansive yard from the side of the house. We slip down into a gap, but before we step out from between the greenery, he stops exactly where we can’t be seen by anyone and faces me.
“You’re trying to run away,” he says, leaning down to stare into my eyes.
Now he’s holding onto me tightly.
I don’t know what to say. He’s so damn handsome it’s distracting, and he smells like a mixture of whiskey and cinnamon. My throat bobs, I lick my lips, and try to get a hold of myself. This is a life-or-death situation, not a freaking frat party. I shouldn’t be thinking about how close Liam’s standing, how good he looks, and how nice it might be to sink my face into his chest and breath him deep.
“Why the hell does everyone know that?” I ask him.
And he grins, like the lights turning on. His exceedingly intense expression shifts, one moment terrifying, the next blinding and charming. I try to step back, but I’m penned in by the hedges, and he’s holding on tightly.
“You won’t make it out alone,” he says, speaking quickly and quietly. “Rustik’s got guards crawling all over this place. The second you step a toe out of line—” He glances down at my bare feet. “Is the second they drag you back.”
“What are you—I don’t mean—” I’m stuttering, trying to find something to say. “I’m not trying to, uh—”
“Don’t play dumb,” he says, his smile disappearing again, shifting back into that intense mask. “I can help you escape.”
My mouth drops open.
Liam Crowley is offering to save me.
I don’t know this guy. I’ve never met him before—I only know of him by reputation.
And it’s not a good one.
Liam’s supposed to be dangerous. Unpredictable, ruthless, clever but quick to violence. Papa spoke of him in hushed whispers, like saying his name out loud might draw his attention.
All I see is a beautiful man. Scary, intense, but beautiful, and still only a man.
