Page 22 of Born in Depravity

Unlike the man in the gas station, he didn’t smile at me.

He wore a black shirt almost identical to the man’s, though, and this one fit him just as well.

He was probably a little taller than that man, which meant he felt like a literal giant to me.

Black hair that was cut down to almost a military buzz and dark eyes, everything about this man was dark and scary. He had a neatly trimmed dark beard, colorful tattoos that ran down both of his arms, and a scar running down one side of his face.

I couldn’t decide who was scarier.

Him or the man in the gas station.

“Do you need help?” the man asked me.

I was completely dumbfounded. This man didn’t look anything like the man in the gas station, but he sounded like him.

Both were intimidating in very different ways. Painstakingly beautiful in their own way. The man in the gas station was beautiful in a way that the ocean was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that Michelangelo sculptures were beautiful. Unreal and untouchable.

This man was beautiful in a unique way. A rough, distinguished way. In a way that made it hard for me to think, in a way that “beautiful” might have sounded too tame to be used to describe him.

I was lost in those bottomless eyes of his.

What were the odds that two dangerous Russian men were just hanging out in the middle of Arizona?

I moved back a small step before I thought better of it and held still. His expression didn’t change, but I swore I saw something shift in his dark eyes when I held my stance.

I must have taken too long to answer him, because he walked past me to the pump.

I watched him with a hint of curiosity that I had never felt before.

“You need to open your gas tank door,” he said lightly, as if he was simply commenting on the weather. It didn’t seem to bother him that I hadn’t spoken a word to him.

My eyes moved down to his arms. He had black tribal art of some sort on one arm that covered the entirety of his biceps and half his forearm, and random, colorful depictions of objects on his other arm, from a red rose burning with realistic-looking flames that went from the inside of his elbow down to mid-forearm, to an old-fashioned watch on his bicep, to what looked like the Grim Reaper on the side of his arm. That was all I could see before he turned, drawing my attention back to his fascinating face.

I cleared my throat. I had never seen tattoos up close before, and I was mesmerized with them now, on this man.

My eyes trailed back down to his arms as he pumped my gas for me. I tried to pay attention because I doubted he would be around to help me the next time I needed to get gas, but I found my attention straying.

He was huge.

Bigger than any man I had ever come in contact with, and that said something, considering the only men I had ever been close to had been my father’s men. Men who were trained to fight, to guard, to intimidate.

But this man had all the other ones beat in bulk.

He turned to me and I startled a bit when the nozzle clicked. He replaced it and closed the tank door.

We didn’t say anything.

I tried to hold still when he made his move over to me.

My eyes widened when he moved his hands up and he cupped my cheeks. I didn’t pull away. I should have, but I didn’t, as electricity worked its way up my spine, making the skin where he touched me tingled.

A foreign feeling took hold deep in my tummy, and further down. Not unlike what I had felt with the man inside the gas station.

I let out a small gasp.

He didn’t pull away from me.

He used his thumbs and wiped away the remnants of my tears, his eyes taking me in. He seemed almost fascinated with my tears.

“Until we meet again,” he said softly.

I watched him walk away from me, and stupidly, felt disappointed.

Moving on autopilot, I climbed back into my truck and pulled out of there, driving up to the diner. A small detour for some food shouldn’t hurt, right?

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