Killian #3
Rurik slams down the glass tumbler of vodka. His stony face vanishes for a rare flash of anger. His men pick up on it too, edging forward as if waiting on his command to attack.
“Last night my men came to collect her,” he says. “She belongs to the sovietnik. She is his property. You interfered.”
I lean forward, elbows on my thighs and hands clasped as I hold his gaze and my grin only spreads. “I’ll make this real simple for you. You were on Irish turf. You were in my fucking pub. My fucking property. You or your boys do it again, I’ll make sure next time you leave in a body bag.”
“Then it seems it is not so simple. Because she is ours, and we will always collect.”
“Not on my fucking territory!”
“You’re mistaken if you think we care about such frivolous details.”
Heat warms my skin as my temper rises and the rage almost takes over. My fists have balled and the spike in adrenaline’s already come.
I could so easily lose my shit here and now. I could be the boneman I normally am, bold enough to fight Rurik Raguzin and his two enforcers in the middle of the club.
…or I could walk away and prepare for war like a commander would do.
A Clan Chief would never escalate this situation in the moment unless necessary. Unless he already had a plan and his men ready to go.
I shove myself out of the armchair, breathing raggedly, done with this conversation.
“Try it again,” I warn. “See what happens.”
Rurik merely stares silently as if amused. He’s reverted back to his elusive cold and composed mask. He picks up his glass tumbler and sips from it, watching me like I’m a form of entertainment.
I want to bash his fucking face in.
Instead I turn and storm out, hands clenched into fists and blood boiling in my veins.
That went about as well as expected.
It’s another hour before I make it to the Banshee, and by then the rage has cooled. I’m still angry, but sane enough to keep myself in check.
The pub looks better than I expected.
Tom and Jhene must’ve spent the whole day cleaning up the wreckage from last night. The broken bottles are gone. The overturned tables are upright again. Somebody’s even mopped the floor ’til it gleams as much as a pub floor can.
You’d never know three Bratva goons got their asses handed to them here less than twenty-four hours ago.
I spot Jhene immediately, weaving between tables with a tray of pints balanced on her palm. She’s changed clothes since this morning—matching me in jeans and a T-shirt—and her thick curls are pulled back from her face with a scrunchie.
I can tell she’s still tired by how slow she moves. The girl looks like she hasn’t even had a good meal lately.
When was the last time she ate?
I didn’t think to ask when she was at the studio.
Stubborn thing probably would’ve refused to fucking tell me.
We catch each other’s eye from across the pub. Her expression sours as if she’s bitten into a lemon.
Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart.
I’m busy glaring at her when a flash of ginger hair catches my attention.
Bridget’s back.
She’s behind the bar tonight, a bright smile on her face as she waves me over. She’s wearing a low-cut top that shows off her cleavage, and her makeup is done up nicer than usual, like she put in extra effort before her shift.
“Hey stranger,” she says warmly. “Missed you last night.”
“Missed you too.” I lean against the bar, ignoring the way Jhene’s gaze is boring into the back of my skull from across the room. “How’re you feeling? You said you were sick.”
“Much better now that you’re here.” Bridget reaches out and touches my arm, her fingers lingering on my bicep a beat longer than necessary. She gives it an appreciative squeeze. “I can tell you’ve been working out. Your arms look even bigger than usual.”
“Uh… thanks.”
This is the part where I usually fuck it up.
Flirting’s never come naturally to me.
Fighting? Sure. Violence? Absolutely.
But the subtle dance of words and touches that leads to courting a woman the proper way?
That’s always been a mystery I can’t crack. I either come on too strong and scare them off or I’m oblivious enough to let the moment pass without making a move.
Not this time. This time I’m following through despite the shitty day I’ve had.
…because of the shitty day I’ve had.
“Listen,” I grunt with a clear of my throat. “I was thinking. Maybe we could... go somewhere. Together. Get food or something.”
Her brows knit as she blinks a few times. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Yeah… guess I am.”
Smooth, Kill. Real fucking smooth.
But Bridget doesn’t seem to mind my complete lack of game. Her smile widens, and she tilts her head, her thick ginger hair falling over one shoulder.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever ask,” she giggles. “I’d love to go out with you, Killian.”
A wave of relief passes over me. “Good to hear. Pick you up Saturday night. Around seven.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I open my mouth to say something else—I don’t even know what—when someone knocks into my shoulder from behind.
“Oops.”
I turn to find Jhene beside me with a tray of empty pint glasses, her expression innocent even though we both know that bump was no accident.
“Sorry about that,” she says sweetly. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Bullshit you didn’t.”
“Maybe you were in the way.” She shrugs, dropping off the empty glasses and picking up two beer bottles and a bowl of pretzels.
She doesn’t wait for a response before she’s flitting off to serve another table.
I glare after her, my blood pressure spiking.
That little rude thing is—
“Everything okay?” Bridget interrupts, drawing my attention back to her.
“Fine,” I grunt. “Just the new girl. She’s...”
“A little weird? I thought so too. But I heard from Marcy, apparently she’s one of those girls on the news. You know, the escaped ones from the Vodka Room. Crazy, right?”
“Uh… yeah. Crazy.”
Bridget laughs as if I’ve said something funny. The sound should make me feel good.