Page 3 of Owned By The Bratva King

“O-of course,” I say, stuttering.

“Excellent.” He releases me. “Go get it.”

I hurry into the back. The phone is beside the stand mixer, tempting me to use it.

Call 911. Call 911. Why aren’t I doing it?

“Now, Quinn,” the man shouts. “Otherwise, I might wonder what you’re up to.”

I grab the kit and return to the shop, sliding it over the counter to him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He unlocks his cell and hands it to me, and I notice Cyrillic letters tattooed on his knuckles. “Go ahead and call them. I’m not an idiot. Do you think I’d have locked myself in here if I thought you could cause me any problems?”

I make the call, watching him the whole time as I relay the address. The dispatcher says she’ll send officers, but the stranger doesn’t pay much attention; he sips his coffee, eats the cinnamon bun, and reads the magazine like any other customer.

“Did they give you an ETA?” the man asks as I hang up.

“Um, no. She said a few minutes.”

“I doubt they’ll hurry.”

He gets to his feet, lifts the flip-top, and walks behind the counter. I retreat, bumping into the wall behind me, and he chuckles.

“Excuse me.” He presses his body to mine for a moment as he squeezes past, but he’s careful not to get blood on me. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he unbuttons his shirt.

This guy is ripped. He’s not overly bulky, but his chest is solid and covered in inked designs. He takes a clean rag and runs the faucet, sluicing warm water over his torso as he leans over the basin. His muscles glisten as blood gurgles down the drain.

I’ve never seen a half-naked man in the flesh before. I’ve never even been kissed unless I count Mickey Potnik in third grade, and that was only because someone bet him he wouldn’t. He won a dollar, and I lost faith that a boy might like me.

This is ridiculous. I’m being held captive in my workplace, and I’m distracted less by the mortal danger and more by this man’s pecs.

I dart out from behind the counter, desperate to put some space between us, and he laughs, returning to his seat.

He rummages through the first aid kit. “Come here, Quinn.”

I make my way gingerly toward him. The gouge in his shoulder is angry-looking but shallow, and he tips iodine over it, gritting his teeth as a deep growl emanates from his chest. He rips a paper packet and takes a sterile needle, threading it and tying a knot.

“It’s a graze,” he says. “I need you to hold the wound closed. Right here.” I reach out, and he moves my hands, guiding me. “Pinch it together. I’m gonna do it fast. Follow along and help me, okay?”

It’s not as though I can refuse. He works briskly, piercing the ragged edges of his damaged skin and sealing them with a row of neat sutures. I watch, spellbound, moving my fingers to where he needs them.

He’s so in control. Nothing he’s asked of me was really a request, but he has a way of making me feel like I’ve chosen to cooperate. In reality, I’m locked inside the bakery with a guy now sewing up his injury and showing no signs of distress beyond a stoic frown.

A knock at the door takes me by surprise. The stranger snips the loose end of the thread and hands me the key.

“That’ll be the law.”

The officers at the door touch their caps in a gesture of greeting, and the one with the mustache speaks first.

“I’m Officer Blake. You need some help here?”

“Of course I do!” I cry. “This man locked me in here with him. He’s been shot. I don’t know what’s going on?—”

Blake holds up his hand. “I wasn’t asking you, kiddo.” He gives the stranger a nod. “Good evening, Mr. Kazanov. Is there anything we can assist with?”

This has to be a dream, a joke, or a psychotic break. Why has this man crashed into my life like this?

Mr. Kazanov stands, flexing his shoulder to bring the circulation back. “Some suicidal idiot tried to kill me. I’m sure the danger has passed, but I’d appreciate it if you’d scout around before I head out.”

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