Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SLOANE
The taxi barely slows before Mandy’s out the door, heels clicking against the pavement as she grabs my hand and drags me toward the entrance, the bass thudding through the walls.
The line outside stretches down the block, a blur of glittering heels, bare legs, and impatient chatter.
But the second the doorman spots Mandy, his face lights up with a grin.
“Hey, kid.” He unhooks the red velvet rope without hesitation. “Go on in. No cover.”
“Thanks, Rob.” She breezes past him like this happens every weekend.
“You know the bouncer?”
She tosses a look over her shoulder. “My mom went to high school with him. He’s known me since I was in diapers.”
“Oh…”
I swear, I think Mandy knows everyone.
As we walk in, the noise inside swallows me whole. Lights flash from every angle, bodies swaying, the pounding music crashing through the large space.
Mandy doesn’t slow down. She clutches my hand and pulls me through the crowd, dodging bodies and half-drunk dancers until we reach a roped-off booth tucked in the corner. It’s just far enough from the speakers to talk, but still close enough to feel like we’re part of it.
Two girls are already there, perched on the curved red leather seat with drinks in hand, a bottle glowing with sparklers in a bucket on the table between them.
I stop at the edge, taking it all in. VIP. Bottle service. Definitely out of my budget.
But Mandy doesn’t worry about things like that. Her mom’s an accountant and her dad’s in finance. They can afford this kind of night without even thinking twice.
“Sloane, these are my girls,” Mandy yells over the beat, pulling me into the circle, her arm slung around me like I belong here.
I manage a smile as names are tossed out—Kelsey, Bella—followed by hugs, compliments, and squeals as a song they recognize comes on.
The next thing I know, a waitress appears with a tray of Jell-O shots, and the girls cheer, each grabbing one and giggling as they toss them back, while I laugh awkwardly and reach for a bottle of water instead.
I try to enjoy myself, loosely dancing to the music as I take a few sips, my eyes drifting through the packed club. And somewhere in all of it, I can’t shake the sense he might be here. That Kirill could be watching me from some dark corner.
It would be insane. Invasive. But also…kind of thrilling.
Heat runs down my spine, but I shake the thought away, biting back a smile at how ridiculous I’m being. But it doesn’t stop my hips from rolling to the beat just in case Kirill is out there somewhere, seeing the way I move.
Mandy leans in, tone pitched high with excitement. “Come on, guys! We’re going to the dance floor!”
I hesitate, but then nod, letting her take my hand again. If I’m here, I might as well have a good time.
The music gets louder as we make our way, drinks in hand, and me with my bottle of water. Mandy and her friends are already dancing together while I let my hips follow the rhythm, still getting used to the dress.
But of course, just as I start to relax, a group of guys begins circling, talking low and eyeing us like we’re next on their menu.
One slides in behind Bella and says something that makes her laugh before she starts dancing with him.
Another leans toward Mandy, and she answers with a flirty little wave that has him grinning like an idiot.
Then one of them turns toward me.
Oh, no. Not happening, buddy.
He’s tall, clean-cut in a stockbroker kind of way, dark eyes, brown hair slicked back. He slides in too close, an arm coming around my hip like he owns me.
“What’s your name?” His vodka breath is sticky against my cheek.
I try to shift away, pulling his hand off. “Emily. And I’m not interested.”
His grip tightens.
“You sure?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Positive.” I push harder this time, prying him off and stepping away. “Excuse me.”
I head back toward the VIP section, but I hear him right behind me.
“Hey, what’s your problem? You’re lucky I even came over. You’re like the least attractive one in that group.”
His words rock me, shame blooming in my chest. My mother used to say the same things. Always told me I was the chubby one, the ugly one, while my sister was the pretty one, the one worth a damn.
But I won’t let this asshole get to me. He’s not going to break me.
I keep walking, not saying anything, but his hand grips my arm. Rough. Tight.
Pain shoots up my wrist as I whip around and toss the water in his face without thinking. It splashes over his hair and collar, soaking his shirt.
He stumbles back, sputtering, “You little bitch! Do you know what you just did? This is Armani—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest. I turn and run. My eyes blur with tears as I shove through the crowd, shooting Mandy a quick text.
Sloane
Bathroom. One of the guys is an asshole. Be right back.
The last thing I want is her seeing me cry on her birthday.
The women’s restroom has a line wrapped around the corner.
Great!
Glancing around, I spot a sign for the staff bathroom down the hall and head toward it. I just need a minute. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere to breathe.
I knew I shouldn’t have come. What was the point? This isn’t fun at all.
I reach for the door and step inside, but before it even closes behind me, someone barrels in. Fingers tangle in my hair, yanking me back as I’m shoved against the wall, my spine hitting so hard I see stars.
It’s him. The guy I threw water on. His face is red, twisted with rage.
Shit.
“What did you think, huh?” He snarls, locking the door. “That I’d just let you run? Maybe you need to be taught a lesson.” He snaps my hair until I wince. “Think you’re better than me?”
In a split second, he covers my mouth with his palm while gripping the strap of my dress with the other, yanking it down while I struggle and scream against his palm.
Tears flood my eyes, and I fight with everything I have.
My nails claw at his skin—desperate, wild—but it only makes him angrier. He grabs at my legs, fumbling with the hem of my dress and shoving it up. His body presses harder against mine and panic smashes into me.
This can’t be happening.
I twist and try to shout against his hold, every part of me bracing for something I won’t come back from.
Tears burn down my cheeks. My lungs seize. My mind screams one word on repeat.
No. No. No.
Suddenly, the door bursts open in an explosion, a thunderclap that ricochets through the narrow space as it snaps off the hinges, crashing inward.
The man barely has time to turn before Kirill comes at him like a tsunami. He slams the guy’s face against the sink, the crack of bone on porcelain so loud it sounds like a gunshot.
Again. And again. And again.
The man’s head bounces off the edge of the basin, blood spraying across the floor in messy lines until I can’t recognize his face.
His legs buckle, the only sign that he’s alive, but Kirill doesn’t stop.
He tosses him on the ground and kicks him in his stomach over and over, and the man lacks the strength to fight back.
Kirill’s foot presses down against his throat, pinning him there, making sure he feels every second of what’s happening.
I stumble backward, hand over my mouth, trying to breathe. Trying to believe this is real.
Kirill’s eyes never leave the guy’s as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small knife.
Then, with a terrifying calm, he drags the blade across the man’s cheek, cutting through skin that’s already split and bloodied, like even that isn’t enough.
My body shudders, struggling to process what’s in front of me. I’ve never witnessed Kirill like this. He looks like a stranger, nothing like the sweet dad from the diner.
I should be terrified. But I’m not. Not even a little. Which says a lot about me, I guess.
The man screams, clutching his face as Kirill calmly slips a hand into his pants, pulls out his wallet, and retrieves his ID. He snaps a photo of it, then pockets the license for himself.
“You should already be dead, Kyle Scott,” he says.
“But I want you to remember this. Every time you touch your face, every time you look in a mirror, I want you to remember how close you came to dying. And if you ever so much as look at her again, you won’t get another warning. Do you understand me?”
The man nods, shaking, one good eye stretched wide in terror.
Footsteps sound off behind me, and when I turn, a tall man dressed in black fills the doorway.
Who the hell is this? He’s young, broad-shouldered, with a scar slicing clean through one eyebrow.
“Mikhail,” Kirill says evenly. “Take out the trash. Drop him somewhere with heavy traffic. Maybe we’ll get lucky and a car will finish the job.”
Mikhail offers a faint smile.
“With pleasure, boss.” His Russian accent is thicker than Kirill’s.
Kyle starts mumbling something unintelligible as Mikhail grabs him by the collar and drags him across the floor.
“Get up,” he mutters, lifting him by the arms.
If not for the blood on his face, he could’ve passed for a drunk getting tossed from the club.
As soon as they’re gone, Kirill slips the knife back into his pocket. He turns to me, and just like that, the fury drains from his face. His brows knit together as his hand drags through his hair, his gaze locking on mine like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.
“My God, Sloane…if I hadn’t gotten here in time—” His voice breaks off as his eyes close and his chest lifts with a shaky breath.
“But you did,” I whisper.
He moves toward me, hands reaching without hesitation. They skim over my shoulders, down my arms, across my face, like he needs to touch every inch just to believe I’m real. That I’m still standing.
“Are you hurt?” He cradles my cheek, his thumb brushing the skin like he’s afraid I might shatter.
I try to answer as I stare up, but the words don’t come. Just a small shake of my head, numbness still clinging to me like fog. But I lean into his hand anyway, desperate for the warmth. For him.
He moves closer, one hand sliding down to settle against my waist. “Are you sure he didn’t touch you anywhere?”
“No,” I whisper, barely holding it together. “He didn’t. You…you saved me.”
His jaw clenches. “You’re safe now. I swear I will never let anything happen to you.”
The words dig deep. My throat tightens, my stomach twists, and the pressure behind my eyes burns. Because I believe him. Even with blood on his hands. Even after what I just saw him do. Somehow, in the aftermath of violence, this—he—feels like safety.
“I’m taking you home.”
Dread instantly rises. I don’t have a home, and there’s no way in hell I can ever let him find out.
“I can’t,” I say too quickly, then force myself to slow down and sound casual even though my heart is racing. “I’m staying at Mandy’s. She’s not leaving yet.”
His eyes sharpen, like he’s checking me for lies. “Then you’re coming home with me.”
My pulse thumps so hard in my throat it hurts. “What?”
He smirks, and the look in his eyes makes me want to grab him by the collar and do something reckless. “I don’t mean my bed, Sloane.”
Heat floods my face anyway.
“Oh, obviously I know that’s not what you meant,” I mumble, then hate myself for rushing to explain.
He arches a brow, the smirk never leaving him, but of course, I can’t shut up.
“I just…I mean, you probably date models. Tall, perfect women. And I’m…” I motion at myself, then cringe. “Not that.”
His reaction is instantaneous. The amusement in his eyes disappears like it was never there, replaced by something darker. Hotter. A look that hits me so hard I stumble back a step.
His gaze drops to my mouth before it lifts again, hooking on to mine. “Is that what you really think? That I’m not attracted to you?”
He steps forward until all the space between us disappears. I have to tilt my head back just to look at him, and the height difference only makes my attraction for him grow even more. He’s larger. More solid. More dangerous in a way my body seems to crave without my permission.
“I…I don’t know,” I whisper, barely able to hold his stare. “Are you?”
The air shifts, charged and heavy, and I can barely speak. He doesn’t either, simply watching me.
“Do you really want to know, Sloane?”
My throat tightens.
Yes. Please.
I nod.
“Give me your hand.”
I lift it, unsure why he wants it. His fingers close around mine, warm and rough, completely swallowing my hand. The contact sends a shiver through me, heat curling low in my belly.
He brings my palm to his mouth and kisses it like he’s imprinting the feeling of me onto his lips. A quiet moan slips out while his gaze stays pinned on me with a heat that sinks beneath my skin and coils deep inside me.
He mumbles something in Russian, voice low and guttural, and the sound ripples through me like a current.
Then, slowly, he lowers my hand between us, guiding it down until it settles between his thighs. I gasp the second I feel him through the fabric.
Hard. Long. Undeniably thick.
Oh, God.
My breath leaves me in a shaky rush as every nerve in my body lights up at once. My fingers curl around his length instinctively, and the reaction from him is immediate: a sharp inhale, like he wasn’t expecting how much it would affect him too.
He leans in close, his mouth near my ear. “Do you still think I’m not attracted to you, solnishko?”