Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters Book 3)

I’m about to pull the trigger and put a bullet in Declan’s head when a female steps out of the car.

Through the crystal-clear magnification of the rifle’s powerful scope, I take her in with one swift assessment.

Young and slight. Mousy blondish hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Baggy gray sweatpants and flip-flops. Eyeglasses and an ill-fitting sweatshirt.

Something about her appearance suggests she’s homeless.

Or careless, at least. Her clothing is wrinkled. Her hair is scraggly. The way the sweatpants hang from her hips suggests malnourishment.

Perhaps Declan is adopting a refugee.

I watch with growing irritation as he embraces the slovenly waif. If she’d only get out of the way, I could get on with it. I’ve been crouched in this crumbling church belfry for hours already.

Sweat is pouring down my neck. My thighs are starting to cramp. The air reeks of mold and mouse droppings, intensified by the sweltering heat.

I can’t wait to get back to Moscow. To the cold and the darkness, far away from this tropical hell hole.

Everything is so bright here. So colorful. So cheerful.

I hate it.

The woman standing off to one side of Declan and the new arrival is Sloane. I recognize her from the picture Kazimir gave me. She’s tall, curvy, and unmistakable, watching the new girl with hesitancy.

Dismissing her, I turn my attention back to Declan.

He sets the waif back onto her feet, but I still don’t have a clear shot. She’s standing too close to him. Then he picks her up and…

I move my face away from the scope, blink to clear my vision, then squint into the scope again.

I wasn’t mistaken.

He threw the waif over his shoulder.

Now he’s swaggering back to the mansion, holding Sloane’s hand while simultaneously carrying another woman upside down. The trio disappears inside together.

I sit back onto my heels and think.

The girl obviously isn’t a refugee. Perhaps a domestic worker? A new maid? By the cool way Sloane greeted her, they didn’t appear acquainted, so that would make sense. It seemed as if it were the first time they’d met.

But the way Declan embraced her with such distinct enthusiasm… The way he was so familiar in handling her, tossing her over his shoulder like a possession…

Ah.

She’s a whore.

A girl so poor and disadvantaged, she has to sell herself to kinky rich couples for money to eat.

“Fucking Irish,” I mutter, disgusted.

I think of my dead brother and the sad-looking waif in the baggy sweatpants, both of them victims of the vicious Mob king.

Then, seething, I settle in again to wait for another shot.

That bastard can’t stay inside forever.