Page 24 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
My jaw moves, but no sound comes out. I literally have no clue how to respond to that, and given I've never actually been on a date before. Plenty of sex, just … no real dates.
"But we just met," I whisper as the surprise begins to dissipate a little.
Mace just shrugs, kneeling down to take his weapon out—the rifle, I mean—and gives me a lazy, self-confident smile. "What can I say, Talia? You give quite the first impression. Now, get down here and shoot some shit with me."
"Yes, sir," I murmur, sinking to my knees while still feeling stunned. This enormous weapon of a man is not acting at all how I'd come to expect. I can't help but feel intrigued by that … more than that, his eagerness to be on a date with me after he just heard me fucking his boss is astounding. And wildly arousing.
Something tells me I’ll enjoy being prisoner to these five fake priests.Chapter 7NATALIA"So what's the deal with you guys anyway?" I ask Weston across the kitchen table, finally giving into my curiosity. "I know you're not government, and you're definitely not clergy. So what are you?"
Weston narrows his cognac colored eyes at me, fiddling with his lip piercing and not answering my question immediately. Instead, he drums the fingers of his left hand on the table and makes me squirm under his intense stare.
"Okay, don't ask?" I guess, shifting uncomfortably in my seat and wishing I could hide under the table or something.
"Tell me something, Natalia," he says finally, putting a strange inflection on my name that makes me frown at him in confusion. "You were very vocal during that fucking church service I was running earlier. Might I ask if you had any encouragement in that matter?"
His gaze still holds me captive, and I squirm again awkwardly. My face is flushing with embarrassment, I can already tell, which seems to be all the answer he requires as he nods and finally blinks.
"I see." He clicks his top teeth on the metal spearing his lip. "Hawke?" Again, I don't answer vocally, but give him a tiny nod of my head in confirmation.
"Motherfucker," Weston swears, shoving his chair back from the table and pushing a hand through his black and green hair. "I knew it. Excuse me while I go and punch that cunt."
He gives me no more time to form words, even if I had any, before storming out of the kitchen and almost knocking Colt over on his way in.
"Whoa, bro." Colt chuckles, looking after Weston's retreating form. "Where's the fire?"
His mention of fire makes me recall the sight of Kisten burning, and I swallow back a lump of guilt and fear.
When Weston doesn't respond, Colt looks to me with a dirty blond brow raised.
"He said something about going to punch Hawke," I inform him with wide eyes. The last thing I want is to cause in-fighting between my captors. I really, really want them all to get along. With and without their clothes.
That might sound a bit presumptuous of me, but there are two key factors driving my actions. One, I was raised to believe I could have anything I wanted in life. I’m the daughter of Konstantin Petrov, Russian mob boss. No one tells me no. And two, my days are numbered.
Anyone might be forgiven for thinking I'm a spoiled, stupid rich girl, but I'm far from stupid. These men are offering me their protection, like they can save me from my fate, but they're only delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later both my father, and my choices, will catch up with me. And when that happens, death will be the best I can hope for.
So yeah, I intend to make the most of my final days of breathing, and anyone who would judge me for that can go straight to hell.
"What's that look for?" Colt asks me, jolting me out of my thoughts. "You look sad."
"Hm?" I blink up at him, struck once again by how handsome he is. With his clear, bottle-green eyes and floppy blond hair, he looks like some sort of Australian surfer or actor.
"Nat," he smirks at me, pulling a chair around the table until he’s sitting within touching distance. He's dressed in faded jeans and a white t-shirt that strains across his muscular chest. Not one of these guys could have anything more than two percent body fat to share between them, but I guess that's to be expected from whatever they are. Mercenaries? Spies? Regardless, I doubt I’ll find any dad bods doing undercover missions that involve my father’s affairs.
"Yes, Colt?" I reply sweetly, pushing aside my thoughts of death—or worse—and focusing on the here and now. I haven't forgotten our interrupted fuck earlier, and his close proximity is making that desire resurface.
