Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

It was generic, probably had come with the apartment.

I turned and looked at my backpack that sat on the dark comforter in the center of the mattress. I walked over to it at the same time I got out of the dress, feeling like the material was permanently stuck to me because of the blood. I let it drop to the floor unceremoniously as I reached into my backpack and pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

Once I was in the bathroom, I wasn’t surprised to see a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, shampoo, even face wash sitting on the counter. All unused. I could’ve imagined this was a swanky hotel stay if I wasn’t being kept here against my will. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew that man—Leonid—was bad. Very bad. And for whatever reason, Arlo wanted to protect me. I wasn’t anybody special, had nothing to offer, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth in my situation.

I couldn’t pay him for keeping me safe. I could barely even afford to keep myself alive and safe from the men I was running from. I set my outfit on the granite bathroom counter and braced my hands on the edge, closing my eyes and just breathing. I didn’t want to look at my reflection. I didn’t want to see blood on my skin, a reminder of tonight.

So instead I ignored the mirror and grabbed the shampoo and body wash, went into the shower, and cranked it on as hot as I could stand it.

I scrubbed myself for twenty minutes until my skin was raw and red, until it was numb, and washed away any remnants of death. With my shirt and shorts on, I climbed into the bed, pulled the blanket over my head, and then let the darkness take me away.

Something loud woke me with a startle, my eyes surging open, my heart racing. I hadn’t dreamed last night. I didn’t see scary faces surrounding me in the darkness, didn’t feel someone chasing me as I looked over my shoulder. I didn’t dream of being held down and blood covering me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept so soundly, where the nightmares didn’t drag me down and try to keep me there.

I pushed the blanket off my body and sat up, wincing from the kink in my neck from sleeping in the same position all night. Morning sunlight streamed through the window. Even though I knew the hectic-day life was in full gear just outside the glass and steel, I didn’t hear honking cars or the thick life of traffic. I inhaled and smelled the faintest hint of lavender and lemon.

I heard another sound come from outside the room, and I stared at the closed bedroom door for a moment before forcing myself out of bed and into the bathroom. After I used the restroom, I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I looked at myself in the mirror. My long dark hair was in unruly waves and cascading down my shoulders and back, tangles touching my cheeks. My hair was even more crazy because I'd slept with it wet, and trying to tame it was a losing battle. I gave up, grabbed a hair tie from my backpack, and was back in front of the mirror, pulling the long fall off my shoulders and into a ponytail.

The bags under my eyes were horrendous, and they stood out like a neon sign against my too-pale face. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to enter a beauty contest. I was quite literally trying to stay alive. So fuck it if I looked like the living dead.

I left the bathroom and shut off the light, headed toward the bedroom door, and gripped the handle, my nerves taking control. I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway but didn’t move right away, just stood there trying to control my breathing. I didn’t hear anything, just the stillness of the apartment, which was a little unnerving. But then I shook my head to clear it, feeling stupid. A quiet house should be the least unnerving thing going on in my life right now.

I stopped at the end of the hall and saw part of the kitchen and living room. My heart was thundering in my chest so loudly I wondered if it could be heard outside my body.

There was a light sound of something being set down, and I leaned to the side and looked into the kitchen. There, sitting at the small dining room table, was Arlo. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him sitting there shirtless, tattoos covering his body, some that were very clearly Russian.

Bratva.

It all fell into place as I took in the stars on his shoulders, the Russian-style cathedral tattooed in vivid, gorgeous detail in the center of his chest, and a Russian nesting doll inked on his entire right side. He had a myriad of other dark and colorful ink along his broad shoulders, biceps, forearms, and very defined chest.