Page 16 of Dance of Devils
I glance down and my heart just about leaps out of my throat.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I yank the duvet up over my nakedness. Heat explodes across my face.
“Where am I?” I blurt, averting my gaze. There’s no way I can look him in the eye right now. “And where are my clothes?” I add, my voice shaking slightly.
Kir draws in a slow, deep breath.
“You’re in my home. You were attacked. I brought you here to take care of you?—”
“Where are my clothes?” I say again, my voice rising half an octave as my hands tighten on the duvet cover. I pull it away a little, glancing down and exhaling with relief.
Still wearing panties, at least.
“If you can remember the men who?—”
“Where thefuckare my clothes!?”
This time, I do meet his gaze—defiant, lips pursed tight, throat working.
His brow furrows. Is it annoyance, maybe, at being interrupted?
“I cut them off,” he growls, “in order toexamineyou, Brooklyn.”
Warmth slithers around my core, making it tighten. Fuck me, there’s something…deliciousabout this man saying my name.
The accent is part of it. Kir’s Russian, obviously, but he also apparently spent time—a fair bit, I think—in England. The result is a mostly posh upper-class British accent, with a slight Eastern European lilt that gives it this sinful edge.
His voice, and his looks, and his utterly room-commanding presence, are why Val and I have a way of thirsting after this man, joking about his “big dick energy”.
I mean…c’mon.
That’s a thing, and it’s Kir’s face you’ll see when you look it up in the dictionary.
“I’m going to ask again,” he murmurs quietly. “Who were the men who attacked you tonight?”
“They’re…”
What? Angry patrons from my fuckingstrip clubside gig?
Yeah, I’ll definitely be telling the gorgeous billionaire Bratva kingpin sitting across the room all about that.
“I don’t know,” I mumble, looking down. “They just…attacked me.” I chew on my lip, still not looking at him. “That was you, wasn’t it? Who fought them off?”
Kir is silent for a long second. So long that I slowly drag my eyes back up to his.
“What were you doing in that neighborhood, Ms. Ellis?” he says, not even acknowledging my question.
My lips twist wryly. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“But that’s not what we’re doing,” he says evenly, his tone commanding no bullshit. “I asked you a question. You are going to answer it.”
That slithering warmth in my core tightens just a little more, sending a peculiar throb through my body.
His firm authority both annoys me and sends tingles rippling through every nerve in my body. It’s an authority I want to defy and, weirdly, utterly submit to.
“I was just…out,” I lift a shoulder.
