Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Panic claws at my chest.
Fuck.
Shit.
Fuck.
Why did I do this? Why did I want to be alone? Why did I have to leave my brothers? Why did I have to prove anything to anyone?
I won’t scream. I can’t panic. My pride won’t let me. But I’m cornered. Vulnerable. And this man is too close.
“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low and greasy. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll make sure you like it.”
“I said no,” I snap, louder this time, clearer. Goddamn it, I’m Zoya Kopolova, and I knew how to shoot a gun before most of my peers knew how to drive a car. Why didn’t I think to bring a weapon? They’re as readily available in my house as a pair of shoes.
His face twists with anger, and he lets my phone fall to the ground. It hits hard, and I wince.
“Give me a fucking kiss,” he growls and shoves me back against the door.
My brothers taught me self-defense. They taught me how to shoot. But right now, every lesson vanishes. My mind blanks. I could get away from him, but without a weapon, a phone, or any idea of where I am…
He grips my chin and pushes me again when a voice cuts in.
“You’ll leave her the fuck alone now.”
The voice comes from behind us. Thick Irish accent. Cold. Dangerous.
“You do what I say by the count of three, or I’ll slice your feckin’ throat. Try me. It’s been too damn long.”
The man holding me jolts and spins. “Who the fuck are you?”
The stranger steps into the light. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. At least ten, twelve years older than I am. Tall. Still. Radiating power and calm like a storm waiting to break.
Even in the dim moonlight, his blue eyes glint like cut sapphires. A five o’clock shadow shades his jaw, and a scar cuts through one eyebrow. Ink curls around his collarbone and disappears beneath his shirt.
The man watching me from inside the bar. He followed us?
Did Rafail put him up to this?
He steps forward, anchoring his hands on his hips. Broad, solid, capable hands.
I swallow.
“You heard what I said,” he murmurs in that accent, then blows out a breath. “I don’t repeat myself. I’ve already exercised what little patience I have.”
There’s a weight to his presence, a quiet confidence that says he’s used to being recognized. Obeyed. Feared even.
He wasn’t just watching. He was waiting.
When the man doesn’t back off fast enough, the Irishman strikes like lightning. He grabs him by the collar and swiftly delivers one solid, brutal punch. A growled word in what might be Gaelic?
“I don’t know how you Russians do things,” he says coolly. “But where I come from, we don’t kiss a woman who says no.”
His grip clamps on the guy’s collar, slamming him into the wall. I wince.
“Now, are you going to leave the poor lass alone, or do I need to teach you a lesson?”
His tone isn’t raised, but it slices through the air.
“You stay the hell out of this.”
Slam.
A punch to the jaw. One to the gut. Another to the temple. The creep crumples to his knees.
The Irishman stands over him, blood on his knuckles and not a single hair out of place. He frowns as if looking down at discarded rubbish on the pavement. He isn’t even winded.
“Aye, so you see,” he says with unnerving calm. “The chance for another choice is now gone. Get the fuck out of here before I end you.”
I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, and my legs won’t move. My brothers would react like this, exactly like this, before they beat the creep beyond recognition. No one fucks with a Kopolov woman.
But this… doesn’t feel the way it would if my brothers were the ones delivering justice and protection.
The creep staggers to his feet and runs. A sensible choice.
The Irishman turns to me.
His voice gentles, his blue eyes glinting.
“You all right, lass?”
Lass. Mmm. I like that.
I swallow and nod. “You didn’t have to save me,” I whisper.
He smiles, and a dimple appears in his cheek. My god, he’s hot and definitely Irish. Ruddy cheeks and dark-brown curls around his ears. Those bright, terrifyingly blue eyes.
Something in them makes my stomach twist.
“I suppose I came here for nothing, then, eh?” he says, cocking a grin. “Should’ve at least had the stupid feckin’ Guinness.”
Then he reaches for my hand.
I flinch, but his touch is gentle. Soothing. The warmth of his rough hand over mine is reassuring.
Wordlessly, he lifts my hand and presses a kiss across the knuckles.
Old-fashioned. Arresting.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my heart pounding.
“Now, little lass,” he says, his voice dropping low. “I don’t know why you’re here, but something tells me you probably shouldn’t be, eh?”
He bends and picks up my phone. Miraculously, it’s unharmed.
He taps something into the screen. “This is my number,” he says. “I’ll be around a bit. Not from around here, you know. Ireland. But I’m not heading back just yet.”