Page 15 of Malevolent King

Silvio held out a hand, summoning me to his side. “You’ll bring me luck tonight. Get us some drinks. Scotch for me, and get yourself something strong. Put it on my tab,” he instructed, his gaze landing on an empty spot at one table.

Just like that, he shooed me away and walked toward the players, entering the game and leaving me alone.

I turned toward the bar and wobbled my way toward a stool. It wasn’t busy, as servers were circling the tables. I pulled myself up on a bar stool, putting my hands over my legs. Now that I was sitting, the hem of my customized dress was much shorter than I’d liked.

“What can I get you?” asked bartender with so many piercings I couldn’t count them.

“Um, a scotch and an… an old-fashioned.” I’d seen someone drink one on TV, and they sounded sophisticated. I wondered for a second if the bartender was going to ID me, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.

“What scotch?” she asked, pointing to the shelves of amber bottles behind the bar.

“The most expensive one,” I decided and smiled.

The bartender moved away to make my drinks, and I glanced around. So, this was it, an actual bar. It was darker than I’d imagined, and no one was dancing. I supposed that this was Silvio’s kind of bar, and I couldn’t imagine him dancing, so that checked out.

Upstairs had seemed livelier, and I wondered if he’d let me go up there on my own to see if anyone was dancing. Probably not.

My gaze moved toward the staircase that descended from the top level and landed on a man ambling down the stairs.

He looked young, way younger than Silvio, nearer my age. Something about his lithe, barely controlled movements drew my eye. He was a coiled spring at one moment and a lazing jungle cat at others. He wasn’t dressed like any of the older men either. Low black jeans hung on his slim hips, shoved into shit-kicking, steel-capped boots. A heavy biker jacket hid the exact proportions of his broad shoulders, and the hood was up on his black hoodie. The only skin I could see easily was the skin on his his hands, which were richly decorated with tattoos.

When he reached the bottom, the tension in the room seemed to heighten. I noticed more than one man taking him in. His entrance was far more noticed than Silvio’s had been. Maybe it was the energy he was giving off. A restless feeling of suppressed power and anger. Like a bomb that could go off at any second.

“One scotch and an old fashioned.” The bartender’s voice made me jump, and I turned quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring at the magnetic stranger who’d entered.

“Thanks. Put it on Silvio De Sanctis’ tab, okay?”I requested.

The bartender merely raised an eyebrow and nodded. Turning, I grabbed the scotch and headed for Silvio. He was deep in the game already and barely acknowledged me as I put the glass beside him.

Returning to the bar, I froze as broad, leather-clad shoulders sat right where I’d been sitting. I thought about sitting somewhere else, but then I remembered my drink. Weaving my way back toward the stranger, I stopped at the bar beside him and looked for my drink. He had pushed his hoodie down, and I was struck by his dark beauty. He had tanned skin and dark jet-black hair. His stubbled jaw was effortlessly hot, and tattoos climbed his neck.

“What?” His sudden word sent my heart all but jumping to my throat.

He was drinking a cocktail already. I peered at it, recognizing the curl of orange peel in the bottom. He was drinkingmycocktail.

“Um, I think you have my drink,” I said and then cursed myself. Why not just get another drink? For my first outing to a club, I wasn’t coming off very cool.

“You left it unattended. It’s my drink now,” he drawled.

His deep voice whispered along my skin. It had a hint of a growl to it. I’d once read a steamy romance about a hero with a growly voice, and the author had described it as a bedroom voice. I hadn’t got it then, but I got it now.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” I said stupidly as the silence dragged between us. “Are you going to buy me another?” The question popped out before I could think about it.

He shook his head.

Embarrassment flushed through me. “Why not?”

“Because,lastochka, I don’t have enough money,” he said, finally turning to face me.

His eyes were dark gray, the strangest stormy, magnetic sight I’d ever seen. His winged black eyebrows and thick lashes were so much prettier than the rest of him. Too pretty for someone with such a thick aura of violence.

“You don’t?” I squeaked.

He shook his head, raising an eyebrow as if amused, waiting to see what I was going to say about it.

“Okay. Fine. I can buy my own drinks,” I muttered.

His attention was warm on my skin. I slid onto the stool next to him and flagged down the bartender in what I hoped was a cool way.

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