Page 7 of Unrequited
He steps forward, anchoring his hands on his hips. Broad, solid, capable hands.
I swallow.
“You heard what I said,” he murmurs in that accent, then blows out a breath. “I don’t repeat myself. I’ve already exercised what little patience I have.”
There’s a weight to his presence, a quiet confidence that says he’s used to being recognized. Obeyed. Feared even.
He wasn’t just watching. He was waiting.
When the man doesn’t back off fast enough, the Irishman strikes like lightning. He grabs him by the collar and swiftlydelivers one solid, brutal punch. A growled word in what might be Gaelic?
“I don’t know how you Russians do things,” he says coolly. “But where I come from, we don’t kiss a woman who says no.”
His grip clamps on the guy’s collar, slamming him into the wall. I wince.
“Now, are you going to leave the poor lass alone, or do I need to teach you a lesson?”
His tone isn’t raised, but it slices through the air.
“You stay the hell out of this.”
Slam.
A punch to the jaw. One to the gut. Another to the temple. The creep crumples to his knees.
The Irishman stands over him, blood on his knuckles and not a single hair out of place. He frowns as if looking down at discarded rubbish on the pavement. He isn’t even winded.
“Aye, so you see,” he says with unnerving calm. “The chance for another choice is now gone. Get the fuck out of here before I end you.”
I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, and my legs won’t move. My brothers would react like this,exactlylike this, before they beat the creep beyond recognition. No one fucks with a Kopolov woman.
But this… doesn’t feel the way it would if my brothers were the ones delivering justice and protection.
The creep staggers to his feet and runs. A sensible choice.
The Irishman turns to me.
His voice gentles, his blue eyes glinting.
“You all right, lass?”
Lass.Mmm. I like that.
I swallow and nod. “You didn’t have to save me,” I whisper.
He smiles, and a dimple appears in his cheek. My god, he’s hot and definitely Irish. Ruddy cheeks and dark-brown curls around his ears. Those bright, terrifyingly blue eyes.
Something in them makes my stomach twist.
“I suppose I came here for nothing, then, eh?” he says, cocking a grin. “Should’ve at least had the stupid feckin’ Guinness.”
Then he reaches for my hand.
I flinch, but his touch is gentle. Soothing. The warmth of his rough hand over mine is reassuring.
Wordlessly, he lifts my hand and presses a kiss across the knuckles.
Old-fashioned. Arresting.
