Page 139 of Savage Hearts
His eyes are fierce. His intensity is breathtaking. And the truth of his words is obvious in every taut line of his body, in every muscle and pore.
This man will kill to protect me. Even his own boss, the most powerful man in Russia, isn’t exempt from the Hangman’s noose.
Gun. Knife. Whatever he uses. The fact remains: my assassin has my back.
Fortified by that thought, I stand straighter, taking a breath. “Yes.”
He pulls me against his chest, hugging me hard and exhaling into my hair.
“Good. Now let’s get dressed. The sooner this is over with, the better.”
With that cryptic statement hanging over my head, Mal picks up the box and leads me into the bedroom.
THIRTY-EIGHT
RILEY
Except for a king-size bed, the master bedroom is as empty as the rest of the apartment.
The walls are painted stark white. The floor is glossy white marble. The bed itself is a masculine affair of black duvet and angular pillows. There are no rugs or drapes to muffle the echo of our footsteps.
Whoever decorated this place didn’t want it to be comfortable. It’s about as homey as a mausoleum.
Mal shows me around, then leaves me in the bathroom with a kiss on my head and a reminder that I have five minutes before we have to leave. I stand in the middle of the enormous space, feeling like I’ve crash-landed on Mars and hostile aliens are swarming over the horizon.
When I set the box on the sink and open it, the feeling of doom intensifies.
It’s not the dress, which is lovely. It’s sleeveless sapphire velvet with a long, slim skirt and cinched waist. It’s not even the shoes, a pair of low strappy heels in an elegant champagne color that are mysteriously my size.
It’s the contact lenses.
The small rectangular box of contacts has my name printed on a label on the outside, along with my prescription.
My precise prescription, including power, curve, cylinder value, axis, and brand. Everything needed to correct my astigmatism perfectly.
In short, somebody had a nice little convo with my optometrist about my eyeballs.
This isn’t some shit you grab off a shelf. These are custom lenses. It normally takes weeks for them to arrive when I order them, and they’re expensive. They’re also delicate and tear easily, which is why I switched back to glasses.
But tonight, my glasses will be staying home.
I don’t dare insult the most powerful man in Russia before I’ve even met him.
I take off the clothes I’m wearing and leave them folded on the sink. I put on the dress, which fits perfectly. The shoes do, too, and so do the lenses.
Then I stand and stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if maybe I’m still in the hospital and this is all a strange dream.
At least I’ve put back on the weight I’d lost, thanks to Mal’s cooking. And the color and fit of the dress are very flattering. Whoever this Pakhan is, he’s got better taste than Sloane.
Nobody will mistake me for a sex worker tonight.
It’s small comfort, but I’m taking what I can get. I turn my back on the mirror and head into the bedroom, where I stop short and suck in a breath.
Mal stands waiting for me near the foot of the bed.
He’s in a beautiful fitted black suit with a crisp white dress shirt open at the throat, no tie. His black leather shoes are polished to a mirror shine. His wavy dark hair has been brushed back against his scalp and glossed with some kind of pomade. The unruly ends curl against his collar.
He’s breathtaking. Gangster chic, a dangerous beast disguised in a gentleman’s clothing.
