Page 4 of King of Depravity

That’s the scariest motherf’er of them all.

He raises his glass to his lips, and I catch the tattoos that cover his massive hands. He’s tattooed like the Russians?

Come to think of it, he only seems to stay when they are here. I shake my head, sure I don’t care. The less I know about that guy the better.

But that’s when Alexander slides out of the booth and stands next to me. I mean right next to me. Like there is barely an inch between us. He drops his head low, his hot breath against my neck and ear. “You didn’t call.”

My smile slips as I duck my head. I’m tempted to tell him that I lost his number, but that only pushes the problem down the road.

Instead, I shift the tray to my left hand, sliding away from him, and placing the little plastic disc between us. “I should have told you when you gave me your number, but I don’t date patrons of the bar. It’s…” I’m searching for the appropriate word. It’s not nepotism because I am in no way powerful.

But it’s not good for business either. “It’s against the bar’s policy,” I finally manage to come up with an excuse, looking up at him with an apologetic smile.

His eyes narrow as he reaches for my tray, moving it out of the way so he can step close again. “You need to understand, printsessa,” he says in his thick accent, “that I am a man who gets what he wants.”

I swallow down a lump. He needs to understand that this isn’t happening. Ever. “I can sense that about you,” I murmur and he gives a low, appreciative laugh. “But my boss would fire me.” And then I give him my most vulnerable eyes, the ones that ask for forgiveness as my lower lip juts out the smallest bit. “I really need this job.”

He eats it up. I can see him shifting to be both sympathetic and appeased. It’s not his lack of appeal, but my circumstances that kept me from calling.

My mom can make nearly any man do anything she chooses. It’s disgusting. She’s on husband number four, and this one is going to stick. Rich and drunk most of the time, she has unlimited access to his credit cards as she feeds him drink after drink.

I will never be like that. I’ve promised myself this a million times over.

But I do understand the principles of what she does, and I occasionally use her techniques to keep myself out of trouble. That’s it.

He eases back into the booth, and I start hustling away. That’s when dark and dangerous in the corner meets my eye again and raises his hand to beckon me over.

My heart stops for a second.

I’m normally way more careful about not meeting his eye, but the Russian has me flustered.

With a gulp, I make my way over to him. “Can I help you, sir?”

He leans over the table, out of the shadows and my breath catches. Holy shit, he’s even better looking up close.

It’s not that every feature is perfect. But every part of him works together to create this beautiful masculine man from the crook in his nose, to his cut jaw, to the bulging muscles highlighted by the fine cut of his dress shirt.

His dark hair waves back from his face and the straight line of his brow. Only his eyes give him away.

They do not sparkle with anything. They’re devoid of light, making him look almost…dead.

I take a half step back, swallowing down a lump, realizing he’s assessing me too and he hasn’t answered my greeting, so I repeat it. “What can I help you with, sir?”

“What did that man just ask you?” His voice is a low gravelly baritone with a rich English accent that doesn’t disguise that his words are not a request. They are a demand.

I bring drinks with a smile and without question. I do not gossip about patrons with other patrons. “Sir, I don’t think?—”

His hand shoots out to capture my wrist. His grip is just tight enough that I feel his power, know that he could hurt me whenever he chooses. “Tell me what he said.”

I hesitate for another second and he tightens the grip, my whole body tensing as I ready for the pain. “He asked me out.”

“And what did you say?”

I shake my head like this is crazy, because it is. Not that I don’t know crazy, or how to handle it. “I said what I always say, no thank you.”

His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go as his thumb strokes along the inside of my wrist.

I’m so over stimulated from the whole interaction that my skin breaks out in goose pimples from his touch. “And if I asked you out? What would you say?”

---