Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

“Where are you taking me?”

He stayed silent for so long that I assumed he wouldn’t answer.

“My apartment,” he finally said, and my heart jackknifed in my chest.

Something deep and dark in my body came alive. He cut me a quick glance before focusing on the street again, his fingers tightening once more on the steering wheel.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have to take you to my apartment to do it.” He stated those words so matter-of-factly it was like he’d read my mind. “You’re safe.” A long moment passed before he said so low I almost didn’t hear, “Even from me.”

Twenty minutes later we were outside the city limits of Desolation and pulling into an underground garage. He parked, climbed out, and walked around the front to open the passenger door before I could do it myself. For a second I just stared up at him, my breath stalling at the cold, detached look on his face.

“Come on, Lina.” His tone was hard and sharp. It was dangerous.

I slipped my hand in his and repressed a shiver, but I didn’t know if it was one of disgust because of what I’d seen him do, or because I liked the feel of his slightly callused hand wrapping tightly around mine and helping me out of his car.

I followed him toward an elevator, and he passed a silver key card across a sensor. The doors opened immediately. And then we were enclosed together as it ascended.

I should have been freaking out. I should have been demanding he take me to my apartment. I shouldn’t have been staring down at my hands as I curled them even tighter around the straps of my backpack and watched them shake. I shouldn’t have kept my mouth shut and let my gaze trail over my dress that I now noticed was covered in pin-sized dark spots.

Blood… blood covered me.

I didn’t know anything about Arlo except for his name and what he ate at the diner every time he came in. His expression was always so stone-cold, as if he was so untouchable by everything and everyone that he couldn’t bother to care. And as I glanced at him, his profile severe and cut in masculine lines and strong features, I couldn’t find the words to say anything. I couldn't find my voice to tell him to take me back to my apartment, even though that was the last place I wanted to go. Because I don’t want to be alone.

I was rattled and shaken, not sure what the hell just happened. He’d beat a man, pulverized his hands, all because of what? The man had groped me, yeah, but Arlo had acted out of such rage I was having a hard time breathing now just thinking about it.

Maybe all of this was some personal vendetta between the two men, because surely I would have no bearing on what Arlo did or didn’t do. Before my thoughts could get even more tangled, the elevator stopped, and the doors opened. He stepped out first, and for a moment I just stood there, unsure if I should follow.

A part of me felt like I was stepping through the gates of hell itself. But I found myself moving on my own accord, the elevator closing silently behind me. I smelled lemon cleaning products right away, and with the lights completely off, the only things I could make out were what the city lights touched coming through the massive windows.

Oh. Wow.

My gaze was riveted to those windows, ones that took up one entire wall of his apartment, the city and sky stretching out for as far as you could see. It looked like it could have been cut from a postcard, how perfect it all seemed, how clean and docile… so not dangerous.

I focused on Arlo again, telling myself I probably shouldn’t turn my attention from him. With the shadows and light that shone through the large windows making up one entire wall, I could make out certain parts of his home. Large couch to the left. A massive TV on the wall across from the furniture. The kitchen was to the right, all dark, smooth counters and sleek stainless-steel appliances.

I expected him to turn my way, to say something now that we were in his domain, but he still said nothing, just walked ahead of me, the soft sound of his shoes hitting the floor seeming louder than it probably should.

“Are you okay?” I finally asked, although it felt so stupid to ask a question like that.

He braced his hands on the bar and hung his head for a second before he let out a low, short, humorless laugh. “You’re the one who was sexually assaulted tonight, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” He turned just his head so he could look at me, the shadows from the dark apartment and figments of light coming through all the windows from the city right behind the glass making him seem almost sinister.