Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters Book 3)

Except for a king-size bed, the master bedroom is as empty as the rest of the apartment.

The walls are painted stark white. The floor is glossy white marble. The bed itself is a masculine affair of black duvet and angular pillows. There are no rugs or drapes to muffle the echo of our footsteps.

Whoever decorated this place didn’t want it to be comfortable. It’s about as homey as a mausoleum.

Mal shows me around, then leaves me in the bathroom with a kiss on my head and a reminder that I have five minutes before we have to leave. I stand in the middle of the enormous space, feeling like I’ve crash landed on Mars and hostile aliens are swarming over the horizon.

When I set the box on the sink and open it, the feeling of doom intensifies.

It’s not the dress, which is lovely. It’s sleeveless sapphire velvet with a long, slim skirt and cinched waist. It’s not even the shoes, a pair of low strappy heels in an elegant champagne color that are mysteriously my size.

It’s the contact lenses.

The small rectangular box of contacts has my name printed on a label on the outside, along with my prescription.

My precise prescription, including power, curve, cylinder value, axis, and brand. Everything needed to correct my astigmatism perfectly.

In short, somebody had a nice little convo with my optometrist about my eyeballs.

This isn’t some shit you grab off a shelf. These are custom lenses. It normally takes weeks for them to arrive when I order them, and they’re expensive. They’re also delicate and tear easily, which is why I switched back to glasses.

But tonight my glasses will be staying home.

I don’t dare insult the most powerful man in Russia before I’ve even met him.

I take off the clothes I’m wearing and leave them folded on the sink. I put on the dress, which fits perfectly. The shoes do, too, and so do the lenses.

Then I stand and stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if maybe I’m still in the hospital and this is all a strange dream.

At least I’ve put back on the weight I’d lost, thanks to Mal’s cooking. And the color and fit of the dress are very flattering. Whoever this Pakhan is, he’s got better taste than Sloane.

Nobody will mistake me for a sex worker tonight.

It’s small comfort, but I’m taking what I can get. I turn my back on the mirror and head into the bedroom, where I stop short and suck in a breath.

Mal stands waiting for me near the foot of the bed.

He’s in a beautiful fitted black suit with a crisp white dress shirt open at the throat, no tie. His black leather shoes are polished to a mirror shine. His wavy dark hair has been brushed back against his scalp and glossed with some kind of pomade. The unruly ends curl against his collar.

He’s breathtaking. Gangster chic, a dangerous beast disguised in a gentleman’s clothing.

He takes me in with one greedy look, licks his lips, then growls something hotly in Russian.

My blood thrumming in my veins, I whisper, “You look nice, too.”

“Come here.”

The hand he holds out is a magnet. So is that hungry look in his eyes, drawing me in. I cross the room with butterflies flitting madly around in my stomach and step into his arms.

He kisses me deeply, one arm wrapped around my waist and a hand gripped firmly around the back of my neck. When I’m certain I’m about to combust, he breaks the kiss and says gruffly, “You’re fucking delicious.”

The Big Bad Wolf couldn’t sound nearly as ravenous. I shiver, pressing closer to the hard expanse of his chest and tightening my arms around his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“I want to tear you out of this dress with my teeth.”

“I don’t think we have time for that.”

Gazing at me with hot eyes, he licks his lips again. He debates for a moment, then shakes his head impatiently. “You’re right. Later. Where are your glasses?”

“On the bathroom counter. There was a pair of prescription contact lenses in the box with the dress. My exact prescription, as a matter of fact.”

He says drily, “And I’m sure the dress and shoes are your exact size, as well.”

“I’m trying hard not to be freaked out, because I trust you, but this seems like a very deliberate message your boss is sending.”

“Yes, it does.”

“You agreeing with me doesn’t make me feel better.”

He gazes at me for a moment, his face pensive. Then he brushes a strand of hair off my forehead and tucks it behind my ear.

“I’m going to tell you something. It’s important.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Just listen to me carefully and remember this. If Pakhan asks you a question, no matter what it is, tell him the truth. The entire, unvarnished truth. Don’t try to dress it up or make it sound pretty.”

His voice lowers. “And especially don’t try to lie. He can smell a lie like a shark can smell a drop of blood in the water.”

Feeling sick, I say faintly, “That image is great, thanks.”

He gives me a squeeze and a firm kiss on the lips. “You’ll be fine. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. We’re going. Remember what I said.”

With that final warning echoing in my ears, he takes my hand and leads me out the door.

The restaurant is a ten-minute drive through traffic from the apartment. We seem to be in the city center. Skyscrapers tower all around us for miles. Pedestrians are everywhere, though the hour is so late. There’s a bustling, cosmopolitan, 24/7 vibe that once again reminds me of San Francisco, but much bigger and without the steep hills.

I wait for homesickness to hit me, but it never comes.

Sitting beside me in the back of the Phantom, Mal is silent.

I can’t tell if he’s tense. His body is relaxed, but there’s a watchfulness in his eyes. A certain way of slicing his gaze from one point to another that reminds me of a big cat lying in wait in tall grass for a gazelle to pass.

When we pull up to a valet stand outside a glass building with opulent gold and blue spires on top and I swallow nervously, Mal says, “Stay right beside me at all times. Don’t go to the restroom. Don’t let go of my hand. If anything happens, get under the table and stay there until I tell you to. Say yes so I know you understand.”

“Yes.”

There. That sounded like a person in control of herself who isn’t about to soil her undies in fright.

The driver opens the door for Mal, who then opens the door for me. We walk into the restaurant with our hands tightly clasped, Mal a step in front. I’m wishing for a paper bag to hyperventilate into as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen floats over to us from behind the hostess stand.

She’s who the word “statuesque” was coined for. A few other choice words, too, including “stunning,” “bombshell,” and “boner-inducing.” Everything about her is lush, golden, and perfect, and I suddenly feel like a pet rodent someone dressed up for Halloween.

“Privet, Malek,” she says in a liquid purr, then something else I don’t pay attention to because I’m too busy being blinded by her cleavage. The sparkly gold minidress she’s wearing does a death-defying plunge from her shoulders straight down to her navel. I have no idea how her boobs haven’t already popped out into Mal’s face.

“Masha,” he replies coolly, looking past her into the restaurant. “He’s here?”

A momentary flicker of annoyance mars her perfect features.

I don’t know if it’s because Mal’s not gobbling up all the tasty bait she’s laying or because he spoke in English, but she decides the problem is me and sends me a look that could wither crops.

I smile at her, feeling better already.

“Da. Follow me, please.”

The golden goddess slinks off into the dining room, hips swaying.

“Friend of yours?” I say acidly.

“I haven’t fucked her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not for lack of trying on her part.”

He sends me a glance, arching a brow. “Are you jealous, little bird?”

“Who, me? Of Miss Universe? Nah. She probably doesn’t own a single pair of sweats.”

His lips curve up at the edges.

Then we’re walking into the restaurant, hand in hand.

It’s by far the most ostentatious space I’ve ever seen.

Like Masha the hostess, everything is gold and sparkling. The wallpaper, the chandeliers, the table linens, the chairs. The carpeting underfoot is plush, with a bold, gold-and-plum swirly pattern that would outdo any Vegas casino. The ceiling, far overhead, reflects the room from a thousand mirrored panels. Ferns and stands of potted palms adorn the nooks and crevices of the room, and a subtle, expensive scent perfumes the air.

All the elegant dining tables sit empty, with the exception of the three we’re walking toward.

The two large round tables are occupied by men in expensive dark suits. All of them are large, bearded, and middle-aged, though not the kind of soft middle-age you see in suburban dads.

These are Vikings. Warriors. The sort of men who know exactly how to wield an axe to sever a head.

Seated behind them in a curved leather booth against the wall is their king.

He’s larger than all the rest of them, hale and broad. His russet beard is shot through with gray. A black wool overcoat with a thick silver fur collar is draped over his shoulders. Tattoos decorate each knuckle of his left hand: stars, flowers, initials, a knife plunged through a skull. His lion-like head is wreathed in smoke from the cigar he’s smoking.

He was handsome once, I can tell. But his face is now craggy and his eyes are as hard as flint, no doubt from all the violence he’s committed.

I must make a meep of fear, because Mal squeezes my hand and murmurs, “Steady.”

When we pass between the first two tables, all the men rise from their chairs. They incline their heads to Mal, who ignores them.

Then we’re standing in front of Pakhan.

He looks at me first, for a long, silent moment. His gaze is powerful and ice cold. I stand stock still, trying not to shit my pants.

When his gaze shifts to Mal, I feel like a bunny released from a steel trap. It’s all I can do not to topple sideways, gasping.

“Malek,” Pakhan says in a rumbling, accented voice. “You’ve been a busy boy.”

It’s said in English, no doubt so I understand. But the tone is as neutral as his expression, so I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused.

Sounding undisturbed, Mal replies in Russian. It seems like a greeting, because afterward he inclines his head slightly.

Pakhan looks briefly at our clasped hands, then back at me. He gestures with his cigar.

“Come sit next to me, Miss Keller. I want to have a look at you.”

Oh, no, the king of the Russian mafia knows my name. This is so not good.

When I find myself unable to move, Mal gently prods me forward, helping me into the booth. I scoot around the curved tabletop, closer to Pakhan, looking everywhere but at him. Mal settles himself beside me and takes my hand under the tablecloth.

As soon as we’re seated, all the Vikings take their seats as well. Half a dozen beautiful young women in skimpy gold outfits appear from nowhere with trays of drinks. They serve Pakhan first, then me and Mal, then the Vikings, who start talking amongst themselves in Russian as if this is just another boys’ night at the club.

I grab the whiskey one of the girls set in front of me. Before I can chug it, Mal places his hand on my wrist to stop me.

Shit. I forgot I can’t drink! This is the worst possible time to be missing a kidney.

Silence reigns for a moment after I set the glass back down. Then Pakhan says, “You’re nervous.”

I exhale a hard breath. “No, I’m terrified. Thank you for the outfit. It’s lovely. For the contacts as well.”

He smokes his cigar, considering my profile. On my other side, Mal is quiet and still. A dark lake with deep waters hiding vicious monsters beneath.

“What are you afraid of, child?”

It’s probably the grandfatherly way he addresses me that makes me feel a sliver more comfortable, but I find myself able to glance at him without fainting.

“Well…you.”

“Me?” Pakhan looks to Mal with raised brows.

I blurt, “It’s not his fault!”

Now both of them are frowning at me. I’m looking at Pakhan, but I can feel Mal’s glower without seeing it. It makes me panic all over again. I bite my lip to keep from making another sound.

“What exactly isn’t his fault?”

“Me being afraid of you. He didn’t say anything bad, you’re just…sort of…scary.”

When he simply stares at me, I cringe. “Sorry. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m just telling you the truth.”

“The truth. Hmm.”

He smokes thoughtfully.

Mal still hasn’t said a word.

“Tell me, Miss Keller, how are you?”

That catches me completely off guard. I blink. When Mal squeezes my hand, I take a breath and hope he meant it when he said to tell the truth, because here goes.

“Right now? Totally freaked out. In general? Better than I’ve been in maybe ever.”

“Better than ever? Most women who’ve been shot, kidnapped, and held captive might find a different way to describe their predicament.”

He says it to me, but he’s looking past me to Mal.

He doesn’t look happy.

How the hell does he know all this stuff? And why would he care if Mal kidnapped me?

Doesn’t matter. Focus.

“He saved my life. Twice. And yes, technically he did kidnap me, but I haven’t asked him to take me home. I think if I did, he would, but I don’t want to ask him to. I actually, um…sort of…have feelings for him.”

I’ve seen the expression Pakhan is wearing before. Mal has looked at me exactly like this a hundred times, when I’ve said something he thinks is even more insane than what I’m usually saying.

“Did he tell you to say that?”

“No.”

Pakhan’s eyes are bloodhounds, lie detectors, and CIA agents interrogating prisoners at Guantanamo. If they could waterboard me, they would.

I let him look. Nuts or not, I’m not lying.

After what feels like eons, he says, “Are you sleeping with him?”

What the actual fuck? I take a breath and try to keep my face and tone calm. “Yes.”

“So he’s forcing you.”

Irritation jolts through me. Indignant on Mal’s behalf, I speak more sharply than I should.

“No. He would never force himself on me, even if he wanted to. I know that because he did want to. As a matter of fact, I’m the one who made the first move in that direction.”

Pakhan makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. He doesn’t seem impressed.

“Women often lie to themselves in these situations. It helps them deal with the trauma if they feel like they’re not a victim. That they had a choice.”

He’s telling me Mal has taken advantage of me, but I’m not smart enough to know.

He’s telling me I’ve been raped, but I don’t realize it.

He’s telling me I’m a silly little girl.

Heat crawls up my neck. My heart starts pounding. I stare at him, wanting to yank his cigar out of his hand and snuff it out on his forehead. The room and everything in it disappears.

I don’t care if this is the most powerful man in Russia.

He’s got it coming, and I’m gonna let him have it.

Looking him straight in the eye, I say, “I don’t know what kind of women you’ve been involved with, but if this man had harmed me in any way, he’d be missing his dick. I would never sit here and defend him, not even if he threatened to kill me if I didn’t. He would’ve had to drag me kicking and screaming into this room by my hair.

“Yes, he kidnapped me. I know it’s not an ideal way to start a relationship, but it’ll be a great story when someone asks how we met. But he also got me emergency surgery that saved my life after my own bodyguard shot me, changed my bandages and made sure I took my medicine, spoon fed me like a baby with meals he cooked himself, took an elk head off a wall because I hated it, robbed an optometrist so I could see, killed the bear that was trying to eat me, taught me how to shoot in case I needed to defend myself, and a bunch of other stuff I can’t remember right now because I’m so mad.

“Mal is the most generous, competent, intelligent, self-disciplined, wonderful man I’ve ever met. He kills people for a living, but nobody’s perfect. And before you ask, yes, he told me how he came to be in your employ. He also told me he’s not going to stop working for you, even though his whole family is now dead and he doesn’t have anybody to protect anymore. So he’s also loyal to a fault. So please don’t insinuate that I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about when I say I have feelings for him, because I do. Because he’s worth it!”

In the wake of that speech, there’s total silence. With horror, I realize that I raised my voice to such a level that the two other tables of men heard me, too.

Everyone in the room is now staring at me.

I swallow and moisten my lips. I exhale a slow, shaky breath. In a more muted tone, I say, “I apologize if that was disrespectful. It wasn’t meant to be. I was just—”

“Defending Malek,” interrupts Pakhan.

His tone is soft. His eyes are hard. I can’t tell if he’s going to pat my hand or kill me.

I whisper, “Yes.”

He doesn’t do anything for a moment except look at me. The tension in the room is palpable, as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see what he’ll do.

Mal’s hand in mine is cool, dry, and steady.

Then Pakhan takes a puff of his cigar, blows out a cloud of smoke, and smiles.

Everyone in the room relaxes.

The men resume their conversations, the girls arrive with platters of food, and my heart remembers how to beat.

Chuckling, Pakhan says something in Russian to Mal.

“You should see her when she’s really angry,” he replies, and takes a sip of his whiskey.

Everything after that is a blur.

I know we eat, but I couldn’t say what. I know there’s conversation, but it’s in Russian so I don’t understand a thing. At one point, Mal says the name Kazimir in a questioning tone, to which Pakhan shakes his head. Then dinner’s over, and we’re standing to leave.

“Miss Keller,” says Pakhan, still sitting. He holds out a ringed hand.

When I look at it, uncertain if I’m supposed to kiss it or what, he says gently, “I don’t bite, child.”

I doubt that but grasp his hand anyway. Then I watch in shock as he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.

“Thank you for an interesting evening. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

His powerful, piercing gaze makes me feel shy. My cheeks faintly burn, and I find it hard to meet his eyes. “You’re welcome. It was nice to meet you, too. And thank you for not being upset with my bad manners.”

His smile is small and mysterious. “Those bad manners will serve you well in the future. Empires aren’t run by the meek.”

It sounds eerily like a prophecy.

Like he knows something about me that I don’t.

But there’s no time to dwell on it, because Mal is pulling me away, dragging me out of the restaurant and into the waiting car.

He pushes me into the back seat, slams the door behind him, and lunges at me.