Page 25 of Wicked Mafia Beast
Up close, she's smaller than I expected. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. I could wrap one hand around both her wrists. But those blue eyes blaze up at me with fury, not gratitude, and up close I can see the ring of gold around her pupils, bright as fire.
A handler guides her toward me with a hand on her elbow. She jerks away from his touch, a sharp recoil that speaks of too many hands on her in the past few days, and I file that away. The instinctive flinch. The flash of revulsion. Someone's been putting hands on her. Someone's going to lose those hands.
"Your purchase, Mr. Vetrov." The handler's smile churns the vodka in my stomach. "Shall I have her prepared for transport?"
"I'll handle it myself."
I reach for her arm, and the moment my fingers close around her bicep, heat jolts through me. Her skin is soft, impossibly soft beneath my calloused palm, but I can feel the steel underneath, the tension coiled in her muscles. She's so small under my hand. Fragile in a way that makes something ancient and protective roar to life in my chest. But the way she holds herself tells me she'd bite my throat out if I gave her the chance.
She tenses like a coiled spring, every muscle in her body going rigid.
"Don't touch me." Her voice is hoarse, probably from screaming, but steady.
I lean down, letting my breath ghost across her ear, close enough to smell the fear on her skin mixed with something floral, something soft that shouldn't exist in a place like this.
"I just bought you,??????. I'll touch what's mine."
It's a test. I want to see what she does. Whether she'll cower or collapse or give in the way so many others would.
She doesn't flinch. Those blue eyes bore into mine with cold fire.
"Then you overpaid. I bite, you rat bastard. Hard. Don’t ever turn your back on me."
Another wave of unwanted warmth floods my chest. It’s irritating as hell and completely fucking inconvenient. And frankly, I'm biting back a grin because this bruised, defiant woman just promised to bite me, and all I can think isgood.
I let my lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. "You bite, I bite. Got it?"
I turn to the auctioneer. “You have my details and how to collect, correct?”
“Yes, sir. We can help with delivery–”
“No.” I cut him off.
I’m tempted to haul her over my shoulder caveman style, but I have more class than most consider possible. I steer her toward the exit, keeping my hand firm on her arm, playing the roleof the possessive buyer for anyone watching. She moves stiffly beside me, her body vibrating with tension, but she doesn't fight. Smart. She knows this isn't the place. She's waiting. Calculating. I’m just waiting for the knee to the balls.
I tuck that thought away as we cut through the crowd. Eyes track our movement, some envious, some hostile, all of them belonging to men who will answer for tonight eventually. The servers don't look up as we pass, their chains clinking softly, their souls already gone. On stage, Lot 24 is being positioned under the spotlight. My skin crawls. Every instinct screams at me to turn around and start killing.
Later.
The stairs stretch upward toward the exit, toward fresh air and freedom, and I guide her up each step with my hand steady on her arm. The temperature climbs as we ascend, the basement chill giving way to warmer air, and then we push through the door and the night air hits us like a benediction.
Cold. Clean. The sharp bite of late autumn cutting through the perfumed rot still clinging to my suit. I pull in a deep breath, feeling my lungs expand with air that doesn't taste like desperation. Beside me I hear Onyx do the same. A ragged inhale. The first real breath she's probably taken in days.
The city sprawls before us, lights glittering against the dark sky, and somewhere a siren wails. Normal sounds. Human sounds. Nothing like the muffled horror of the basement we just escaped.
A black SUV waits at the curb. Cristian waits behind the wheel, his pale gray eyes flicking to us in the rearview mirror. He doesn't ask questions when I open the back door and guide Onyxinside. My cousin starts the engine and pulls away from the church-turned-hellhole.
She presses herself against the far door, putting as much distance between us as the backseat allows. I don't blame her. If I were in her position, I'd be looking for a weapon and an escape route too.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The city lights streak past the tinted windows, yellow and white and red blurring into ribbons, and I can practically hear her brain working, sorting through options, running scenarios.
Finally, she breaks the silence.
"Are you the one who read my wish?"
“You know who I am?”
She lifts her chin and holds my gaze despite the darkness. "I do."
