Jhene #2
He grabs each of them by the collar, one at a time, and drags them across the bar. You’d think they weigh nothing at all with how effortlessly he does it.
The front door swings open, and he tosses them out into the street like bags of garbage, their bodies hitting the pavement with satisfying thuds.
“You come back again, and I’ll gut you like a fucking fish!” he calls out to them, “then feed you to them in the Hudson River!”
Killian lets the door swing shut once he’s stepped back inside. He flicks on one of the pub lights, and though it’s still dim in the main room, I wince as my eyes struggle to adjust.
He starts toward me, face hard, jaw clenched, and dark blue eyes narrowed. I’m still buzzing from the attack and how everything’s gone down in what probably wasn’t even ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes ago I was probably in the pub bathroom brushing my teeth.
Now I find myself alone with an Irish enforcer who’s stalking toward me as if I’m his enemy. Not the men he just kicked out of the pub.
One thing’s for sure—we’ve made a mess of the place. Broken glass is scattered everywhere you look from the many bottles that have been broken, and several tables and chairs have been overturned. Some of those are broken too.
I’m still on the floor where the Russian flung me. My hands are cut up from the tiny shards of broken glass, and my cheek is throbbing from the brutal backhand I took. Pretty sure it’s swelling up already.
“You alright?” Killian asks gruffly as he closes the gap between us. He extends his arm as if he’s about to help me up.
I rush to push myself to my feet first.
The room tilts for a second, another brief wave of dizziness passing over me. I force myself to stand up straight anyway, even though every part of me wants to collapse again.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, brushing glass and debris off my sweatpants.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Well I am. Thanks for your concern.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, his narrowed blue eyes studying me. “What the fuck was that?”
I shrug, my expression as neutral as possible despite the panic inside me. “How should I know? They were obviously here to rob the place.”
“Bullshit.”
“Bullshit as in what?”
“Bullshit as in bullshit.” He takes a step closer, forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him. The man is a damn giant, and up close he’s even more intimidating than he was from across the bar. “That wasn’t a robbery. They weren’t after cash or liquor. They were after you.”
I fall silent, unable to deny the accusation but too stubborn to admit it. My attention redirects to studying a scrape on the palm of my left hand.
…not that it even matters considering Killian’s interrogation has officially begun.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands in a low growl. “What kind of shit are you waist deep in to have the Bratva coming for you?”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a server trying to—”
“Hang on a damn second,” he grunts suddenly. He takes yet another step closer as his eyes shrink into thin slits and he stares down at me as if he’s cracking a code. He’s deciphered whatever it was he was trying to piece together.
It’s enough to make a girl self-conscious as gooseflesh prickles my skin and I blink uncertainly, tempted to back away and put distance between us.
“You’re the girl from the news,” he says. “One of the women who escaped from the Vodka Room.”
My heart freezes midbeat. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do. You’re one of the Bratva’s trafficking victims. It’s been all over the fucking news. Your face was plastered on every channel for days.”
I’m half tempted to be delusional enough to deny it. Insist he’s got the wrong girl.
It’s not me he’s thinking of, and he’s simply confused.
But as I peer up into his gritty, scowling face, I know there’s no way to spin another lie. He damn near sees straight through me. He knows exactly who I am, and there’s no running from it.
So I do what I often do when I’m overwhelmed and come up blank—I stay quiet and don’t say anything.
My gaze drops from his, and I wish I were alone again in the stockroom.
Things are always so much easier when I’m alone.
“You need to go to the police,” he says.
“No.”
“You think this is some debate? Those fucks are gonna come back, and next time—”
“I said no,” I answer plainly. Then I meet his gaze again with a beat of irritation suddenly riling me up.
“The cops can’t protect me! If anything, they’ll make it worse.
There are dirty cops all over the NYPD. The second I walk into a precinct, someone’s going to tip off the Bratva.
I’d be found by morning. Dead by the evening. ”
His scowl deepens as if I’m being difficult on purpose. “Fine. Then a women’s shelter. There’re places that—”
“No shelters either,” I say with a stubborn shake of my head.
I take a wide step back from him. “You think I haven’t been to shelters?
They’re not safe. How can they be when the staff there tries to prey on you too?
The fact is, nowhere is safe. Just... leave me alone, okay? I don’t need your help.”
I spot the knife I had pulled earlier and scoop it up off the floor, gripping the handle as if it’s truly a formidable weapon and not a dull kitchen blade.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”
I’m about to turn and head to the back when Killian’s hand shoots out. I yelp at how fast he moves, how he goes from standing still one second to grabbing hold of me the next.
His fingers clip my chin between them, and he jerks my face up toward his. His grip isn’t painful, but it’s definitely firm enough I can’t pull away.
He tilts my head to the side to study the bruise forming on my cheek.
“Doesn’t look like you do,” he grunts.
“Turns out appearances can be deceiving.”
I try to yank my face away, but he holds me in place for another second before finally letting go.
On his terms.
A fact of life I bet most people in his orbit must abide by.
“It’s either the shelter or the police station,” he says. “Take your pick, girl. But you’re not fucking staying here alone. Those Russian assholes’ll be back the second they can walk straight, and next time they might bring friends.”
“I can’t help that. But I’m telling you, if you take me to either one of those places, I’m gone.” I glare back at him, nostrils flaring and grip still tight on the kitchen knife. “The second you turn your back, I’ll disappear. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”
We stare at each other, both too hardheaded to back down. We’re locked in a battle of wills, refusing to so much as blink or we’ll lose.
Then Killian heaves a deep breath, releasing it with a frustrated growl worthy of a beast. He scrubs a hand over his bearded face as if it pains him to say what he does next.
“Fine. C’mon then.”
My brows knit, startled he’s the one who has blinked first. “Umm… what?”
“You heard me.” He grabs my hand and turns toward the same pub table he’d been seated at earlier, snatching up a ring of keys he must’ve left behind. Then he’s heading for the door with me in tow. “You’re coming with me.”
“Coming with you where?” I stumble after him, too stunned to resist. “What are you talking about? Let go of me! Are you insane?”
“Probably.”
He doesn’t slow down, and he definitely doesn’t bother sparing me a look from over his broad, muscled shoulder. He simply keeps dragging me toward the exit.
“I can’t leave you here alone tonight,” he goes on. “But you’re obviously a fucking pain in the ass who is refusing to go to the police station. So for tonight at least, you’re coming home with me.”
It’s as if cold water has been splashed on me. It jolts me awake as I dig my heels in and try to stop our forward momentum.
“Oh no, I’m not—”
“I wasn’t asking,” he grunts in interruption. “You’ve made your choice. Now you’re stuck with me ’til morning.”
With that, he pulls me out into the Brooklyn night, leaving the wreckage of the Banshee behind us.