Page 7 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
I take a deep breath before I realize I'm not exactly wearing pants … or panties for that matter. Tugging the shirt down low, I figure it's a few inches longer than the dress I was wearing anyway, so as long as I'm careful not to bend down, everything should be fine, right?
At least, I think that until … well. Until I see him.
Arsen.
His name implies a burn that's hot and fierce, an illicit fire set with cruel intentions. I just didn't know it was going to be so literal. As soon as I see his back, I know I'm in trouble. He's shirtless and scarred, covered in tattoos. Big, beautiful demon wings trace down his spine, black as sin, not at all something a priest should have decorating his skin.
My breath catches in my throat as Mace pauses and looks down at me, noticing my starstruck expression with a sigh.
"That's Arsen," he says, but I already figured that out. He said Arsen was cooking breakfast. Well, there's a beautifully flawed man flipping pancakes right there in front of me. I find it suddenly hard to breathe when he turns and flicks a glance over his shoulder, his eyes the color of a cloudless sky, his too-long hair as blond as the sun.
"Who is this?" he asks, his voice like an adder, coiled and dangerous, ready to strike. Without meaning to, I find myself drawn toward him, resting my fingertips against the surface of the table.
"Natalia Petrova," I say, my voice husky and low.
Arsen pauses in his cooking as Hawke looks up from the paper he's reading and studies me. I can feel his gaze as surely as I can feel Mace's from behind me.
"Natalia … Petrova," Arsen repeats, turning around all the way and handing the spatula to Hawke.
"Arsen," the other man warns, but he's already walking around the table to stand in front of me, his black pants hung low on his hips, almost like they were underlining his chiseled, ink covered Adonis belt. He barely seems to notice that my eyes are glued to the tattoos on his chest. "Leave her alone."
"Natalia Petrova, huh?" Arsen looks down at me with those ice-blue eyes, as cold as the frost they imitate, his blond hair falling in his face. He doesn't look like a priest at all, and the way he's staring at me now? I feel like I should run. I don't feel like there's any sanctuary to be had here. "I like the name. Sounds fucking familiar to me, but I can't quite place it."
I swallow hard and take a step back.
Arsen follows.
"I need to use the restroom," I blurt, feeling my cunt throb and the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. I turn and flee the kitchen, slamming the bathroom door closed behind me. My chest is rising and falling like I've run a marathon. "Who the hell is that?" I whisper as I step away from the door. Just as I'm about to turn and flick the lock, the door flies open and I stumble back into the wall.
"Arsen, goddamn it!" a voice roars from outside the door, but it's already been sealed shut and locked. I can hear massive fists pounding against the wood. But this is no shitty hollow core door from Home Depot: this is an original, made of thick, solid wood.
"What are you doing?" I ask as the man stalks toward me and pauses, leaning down to look into my face. He even touches two fingers to my chin, and I jerk my head away, drawing a cruel laugh from his throat.
"Don't you lay a fucking finger on her!" It's Hawke that's shouting outside the door, but it sounds like Mace is trying to break the damn thing down.
"Why would you lay a finger on me?" I ask, feeling around behind me and grabbing the very tip of the toilet plunger. It has a wooden handle and although I might not get far with it as a weapon, I can at least make this man hurt if he tries to go for me.
"No reason," Arsen says, eyes sparkling as he steps back and crosses his arms over his bare chest. His muscles ripple with colorful tattoos, depicting scenes from the Bible, most of them the fire and brimstone type.
I'm so fucking confused right now.
"So, tell me, Natalia Petrova, do you like one-night stands?"
"What are you talking about? Why would you ask me that?" I ask, brow scrunched, breath coming in panting bursts. I can feel my nipples pebbling under my borrowed t-shirt, my thighs clenching tight. There's something wild and male about this man, the way he smells, the way he looks, the way he is looking at me.
I want him.
I want him in the worst, most primal way possible.
