Page 28 of Lord of Passion

Pulling on some leggings and a zippered jacket, I grab my phone and head back downstairs. I look a little disheveled, so I head for the side entrance so I don't have to cross the lobby. It's down a quiet, paneled hallway, this area is mostly used for meetings and convention space.

A run. I'll take a run and my Zen will return.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I spin on one sneakered foot and there he is. Nikandr. He's alone, no hovering security, and still wearing his suit. His tie is gone and his open collar gapes just enough to show the beginnings of a bite mark I'd put on him.

Flushing, I snarl, "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm going for a run." I spread my arms wide, showing my leggings and running shoes.

"Not this late, you aren't." He takes my arm. "And not without a bodyguard."

I could stomp on his ridiculously expensive Santoni Oxfords, or-

A man steps out from a doorway, what's he doing in there? It's too late for meetings. His arm comes up and there's a gun pointing at my face. A big gun.

"Start walking," he tells Nikandr, "or I shoot your girlfriend and her brains go everywhere."

Chapter Thirteen

In which terrible tattoos are not as threatening as a Russian thug might think they are.

Nikandr…

"Start walking, or I shoot your girlfriend and her brains go everywhere."

A small noise escapes Caroline. Not a whimper, exactly, nor a scream, something in between. Like she knows she's about to die, and she's really angry about it.

Her eyes are watching mine and when I say, "She's not my girlfriend," they narrow and her lip curls back slightly, making her look like she's ready to take a chunk out of my throat.

The thug next to her chuckles, shoving the muzzle of his gun against her temple. She's utterly still. No crying, no wailing, but her eyes are moving around, trying to find something to help us. Unfortunately, it's a quiet section of the hotel, a side entrance that's usually closed and locked at this time of night.

There's a movement behind me and I spin with my gun in hand to find three pistols pointed in my face.

These motherfuckers.

"Now that we don't have to depend on your chivalrous nature," the first thug says, "get moving or we paint the walls with Morozov blood." One of the men behind me takes my Ruger.

"So dramatic," I observe as they shove me toward the side exit by the guns in my back. Two. As if these simpletons don't think one gun is plenty. Caroline's next to me. "Is that something that you practice in front of the mirror?" One of the assholes behind me growls, and I can feel the air disperse around the arc of his weapon, probably ready to pistol whip me. That would be helpful. It would give me a better chance to disarm him.

Unfortunately, Thug #1 is having none of it. "Keep your fucking guntrainedon him," he orders crisply, "You crack him over the head with it and I'll make you carry him like a fucking newlywed." Less reassuringly, he adds, "There's plenty of time for that later."

Unfortunately, it only takes seconds to get hauled out the side exit. There's a car waiting for us in the empty alley. It's not helping us that it's a quiet night in this section of Moscow. The expensive restaurants and clubs are full, but the streets are relatively deserted. Instead of a standard panel van, these assholes have gone all out with a heavily shaded Aurus Komendant,the Russian version of a Rolls Royce.

Caroline's lips are pressed so tightly together that they're almost white, her hands tightened into fists. I push between the men and the door, helping her in before they can touch her.

After she reluctantly slides inside, I brace my hand on the door looking at the man behind me. He's been doing all the pistol waving and shoving. "You'll be first," I say pleasantly.

His face scrunches up in confusion as he gets in after me, slamming the door shut. "Huh?"

I lean over just a bit and his gun comes up in a warning. "You'll be first," I say, softly, almost intimately. "To have the skin torn off your fucking face inch by inch." I smile and cock my head thoughtfully. "I think I'm going to make you eat it before I kill you."

The town car takes off with a lurch, snapping our heads back as it merges into Moscow's downtown traffic in seconds. The lights ofHotel Tsaritsafade behind us, replaced by searing neon and the glaring white lights of the high-rise district, curving along the Presnenskaya Embankment.

Caroline shifts slightly. We're bookended on either side by these assholes, and she's leaning closer to me, her long thigh pressing against mine. I understand, she doesn't want that rat fuck touching her. She's tall for a woman. I've always liked that. I've never been into picking my dates up and carrying them around like dolls. But Morozov men are usually 6"4, 6"5, so it's often necessary.

Her hands are fisted in her lap and she stares straight ahead. There's a slow warmth curling up my side from her skin against mine, it's bringing her scent with it, something lush, sea salt and berries.

"This sucks," she blurts it out, she's not even looking at me, still staring out the mirrored divider between the driver and us. "I'm boring as fuck, so I'm assuming this grand abduction has nothing to do with me. Which means…" Now she looks at me, not angry, exactly, more speculative. "Which means that it's all your fault. Because you're the fancy specialSovietnik,correct?"