Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters Book 3)

Smashing flower pots isn’t nearly as cathartic as I hoped it would be.

I go back inside the bedroom, closing and locking the patio doors and drawing the curtains over them again. I’m starving, having only had a dinner roll and some candy for supper, but I’ll be damned if I’ll call down on the stupid house phone for food.

I don’t want to speak to another Irishman for the rest of my life. The whole lot of them are arrogant bastards!

Okay, fine, they’re all really nice.

The truth is that I’m too embarrassed.

It seems more reasonable to starve to death than to have to face the disappointed, condescending looks of Declan’s staff when they bring food up to Sloane’s lying little sister.

I have no doubt whatsoever that they’ve all been gossiping about me since I left the room earlier in such disgrace.

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.”

When he doesn’t respond, I add meekly, “Right?”

“I’m not here for the money.”

Breathe. Don’t pass out. Lungs, if you fail me now, I’ll start smoking ten packs of cigarettes a day to get back at you.

“It’s a lot of money, though.”

“Not to me. But the amount doesn’t matter.”

We sit in another space of nerve-racking silence while my heartbeat crashes in my ears and the entire bed trembles underneath me, until I gather enough courage to venture, “So if you’re not here to get back your money, and you’re not”—gulp—“going to hurt me…why are you here?”

He takes his time responding to that. I feel him thinking about it, mulling it over in his head.

Finally, he says, “I don’t know.”

He sounds bewildered. Not like he’s playing a game, but like he honestly has no idea why he suddenly found himself in my bedroom in the middle of the night.

His confusion makes me relax.

I mean, serial killers usually know why they broke into your bedroom, right?

I decide I’d like to see his expression and reach over to the nightstand for my glasses. But my sudden movement causes him to react. It happens so quickly, I don’t even have time to blink.

He grasps my wrist in his big hand and growls, “Don’t try to shoot me. A bullet in my gut will only make me mad.”

He towers over me, a forcefield of heat and tension beside the bed. He’s so close, his warm breath brushes my ear.

“I was reaching for my glasses!” I blurt, panicking. “I don’t have a gun!”

After a beat, his grip on my wrist softens. Then he releases me and steps away, standing close enough to the bed that I can still see his form.

I scramble for the glasses, shove them onto my face, and stare up at him in cold fear.

His height makes him even more terrifying. From this angle, I feel like I’m craning my neck to gaze up at a skyscraper. Only it’s so tall, I can’t see the top. His face is wreathed in darkness.

Then he bends his long legs and kneels beside the bed, bringing his face into view.

Even through the shadows, I see the intensity in those pale green eyes.

I see how they search.

How they burn.

I make a bleating sound, like a scared lamb. It’s involuntary, and I hate myself for being such a wuss. His reaction seems involuntary, too.

He shushes me softly. He reaches out and caresses my cheek, cooing a stream of gently spoken words.

“Ty v bezovasnoshti so mnoy, malyutka. Ya ne prichinu tebe vreda.”

Russian. It’s Russian he’s speaking.

I recognize it without knowing how and almost fall out of bed.

Recap: a huge, beautiful Russian man broke into my bedroom. Ten feet away from a row of toilets, he gave me one hundred thousand dollars and told me I had pretty eyes. He can appear and disappear like smoke, smells like an ancient forest, and has a voice, a body, and a face that make me want him to do bad things to me.

He thinks I’m a prisoner. And a prostitute.

He’s confused about pretty much everything else.

Also, he’s still caressing my face. I hope he’ll keep doing that forever.

My voice shaking, I say, “I feel like you should tell me your name now. I need to know what to call you.”

Kneeling with one tattooed hand spread open over his massive thigh and the other on my jaw, he stares so hard at me, he can probably see my bones.

“You can make one up if you want. Or I’ll make one up for you, if you prefer. It’s just that I can’t keep calling you Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger in my head too much longer. It’s a mouthful, you know?”

His thumb sweeps back and forth over my cheekbone so slowly and gently, I’m getting hypnotized.

“Riley.”

Ignoring my request for his name, he tests my name on his tongue instead. He says it again, even more softly than the first time. He blinks, frowning, and shakes his head slightly. I can tell he doesn’t understand what’s happening.

Me, neither.

“Riley Rose,” I say breathlessly, feeling electrocuted. Feeling every beat of my heart and every hot pulse of blood roaring through my veins.

Why am I not screaming for the guards? As soon as I ask myself that question, I know the answer: I don’t want the guards to come.

Gazing at me like he’s witnessing his first sunrise, he lightly sweeps his thumb over my top lip. He whispers gruffly, “You’re made of fine materials, Riley Rose.”

Jesus fucking yellow penguins, this man is unreal.

Sensing he’d tell me anything I wanted to know right now, I insist, “What’s your name?”

When he moistens his lips, I think I’ll pass out.

“Malek.”

Malek. Like Alek, only way fucking hotter.

“Why are you in my bedroom, Malek? What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he replies instantly.

His eyes tell a very different story.

Our gazes lock. My skin ignites. My heart, head, and loins explode with fire.

A voice comes through the door. “Lass, you all right in there? I thought I heard voices.”

It’s Spider.

Fuck! It’s Spider!

I turn my head to the door and call out, “I’m fine, thanks. Good night!”

When I turn back to look at Malek, he’s gone. The curtains in front of the closed French doors billow slightly, then settle back into tranquility and hang still.

I sit watching them, stunned.

He’s a ghost. Or a vampire. Or an alien who can walk through solid objects.

Or a figment of my overactive imagination, which would make way more sense.

With an edge in his voice that suggests he might force his way in if I don’t comply, Spider says, “Open up, lass.”

I take a moment to compose myself, then throw off the covers and pad barefoot over the carpet to the door. I unlock it, open it, and lean my shoulder on the edge, squinting against the bright hallway light.

Tense and suspicious, he peers past me into the dark room. “Who were you talking to?”

Instead of answering that, I deflect. “Why were you listening at my door? Are you spying on me?”

The tactic works. His cheeks turn ruddy, and he glances away. Sounding flustered, he says, “No, lass. I just…uh…wanted to check on you. Make sure you were safe.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Has something happened?”

He glances back at me and shakes his head, but I sense a hesitation.

“Spit it out. What’s up?”

He passes a hand over his hair, looks at the floor, runs a finger under his shirt collar. “What happened earlier.”

When I tried to tell Sloane about seeing Malek in the ladies room at the restaurant, he means. When she humiliated me in front of everyone by calling me a liar.

Heat rising up my neck, I say stiffly, “I don’t want to talk about it, thanks.”

He peers at me with an odd expression. His voice comes out muted. “You said ‘he.’”

“Excuse me?”

“When you opened the door to the ladies room and asked me if I saw someone come out. You first referred to that person as ‘he.’ And you seemed disoriented.”

My heart picks up its pace. “What’s your point?”

He stares at me, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “Was there a man in the bathroom with you, lass?”

“Would you believe me if I said there was?”

He considers that for a silent beat, then nods.

I don’t know why, but it makes me want to cry. My chest tight, I look away, blinking. “Thank you. But it doesn’t really matter now.”

Spider says softly, “Aye, lass. It does.” After a moment, he prompts, “Look at me.”

“I can’t. I’m too busy trying to pretend I’m not upset so you won’t think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. But I do think you’re proud enough not to trust me from now on because I had to tell your sister the truth about what I saw.”

“No, I understand. You were just doing your job.”

He seems dissatisfied by that, shifting his weight from foot to foot and passing a hand over his hair again. He exhales and squeezes the back of his neck. Then he shakes his head, as if he’s made some kind of decision.

After a rough throat clearing, he says, “I’ll let you get back to bed. Sorry for the disturbance.”

Then he turns and stalks off down the hallway, muttering to himself in Gaelic.

I go back to bed and lie awake for a long time. I finally fall into a fitful, dreamless sleep, waking every so often to the scent of cedar sap and pine needles, of fog clinging to ancient tree trunks in a dark, moonlit woods.

When I get up in the morning, a single long-stemmed white rose rests on the pillow beside my head.