Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

I didn’t know what he’d just said in Russian, but I could assume it was along the lines of “ungrateful bitch.”

I exhaled and finished my danish and coffee, rinsed out my cup, and set it in the sink. I wanted to ask him over and over again why he was doing any of this, letting me stay in this posh apartment, feeding me, clothing me… protecting me. I just wanted to take his face in my hands and… kiss him.

Instead I picked up the bag he’d gestured toward on the ground by the breakfast bar and walked away, mentally adding up how much I’d owe Arlo after this was all said and done.

And as I walked back to the guest room to change, I felt him watching me the whole time.

14

Galina

This felt like it was a really bad idea as I stood across from Arlo in a questionably stained—possibly once white—boxing ring.

We’d left almost two hours ago from his apartment. I’d taken in the wealthy part of the city, remembering the glittering skyscrapers that seemed to touch the heavens, where people walked up and down the streets without the fear of getting pulled into a dark alley.

I’d stared out the window of his car and saw the affluence slowly turned into that ugliness Desolation was so known for.

I didn’t need to ask if this gym was Russian. That had been clear when we stepped inside and I saw the massive Russian flag hanging behind the boxing ring, coupled with the fact that all I heard was men shouting and talking in another language.

At first, I’d had in this weird moment of awe as I followed Arlo inside, the gym bag hanging loosely from his strong, broad shoulders. Although all the noise sounded like there were a hundred men crammed inside, there was probably only a handful, all of them so big and loud it made my ears ring. But as soon as they noticed Arlo, the conversation stopped, all eyes on us.

He said something low but loud enough that it carried through the small interior. And then I watched in confusion and a little bit mesmerized as the men left. As in they left the gym.

I glanced around. The place appeared run-down, decades old. The boxing ring itself was battered, with dark tape holding some of the roping together that surrounded us, the white beneath my feet stained in brown, rusty shades.

I looked at Arlo again, the white T-shirt he wore hiding almost all the tattoos on his chest, yet I could make out the dark ink and shapes beneath the thin, light-colored material. “Is this place owned by the Russian mafia?” I had no idea why those words came from my mouth. I felt my eyes flare in surprise and a little bit of fear.

I didn’t want to get on his bad side, although I didn't know if Arlo had a good side.

I also had no idea if blatantly talking about the Bratva would piss him off. Not that I knew anything about the former, but if I were to guess, I assumed this place was hard-core mafia territory.

“It’s owned by Ivan.” He smirked.

I licked my lips and started moving my hands up and down my thighs. “Ivan, huh?”

He nodded once. Slowly.

I said nothing else, just kept running my sweaty palms up and down my thighs. The workout clothes Arlo had gotten for me were nothing but a pair of black leggings, some ankle socks, tennis shoes, and a form-fitted short-sleeve shirt. I was completely covered, modest even, yet whenever Arlo looked at me, I always felt so naked.

“What did you say to everyone to get them all to leave the gym?” I figured that was a safe enough conversation switch, but when he slowly shook his head, I had a feeling this might have been another “nonnegotiable” situation.

“I told them,” he finally said, “you weren’t a sideshow, so I politely informed them the gym was closed for a private lesson.”

This dark tendril moved through me at his words, because I knew what they were. A lie.

I watched the way his gaze tracked up and down my body, how his eyes moved along my form, lingering on the long lines of my legs, moving back up to skate over the most intimate part of me that was totally covered, so it wasn’t like he could see anything, yet I felt a whole lot of heat in that moment.

Then he moved his gaze up my flat belly, over the small mounds of my breasts, and finally looked into my face. My nipples hardened under the sports bra and thin Lycra of my shirt. I tried to control my breathing, but I knew I failed. How could a look make me feel like this?

“I have a feeling that’s not what you said to them,” I said with a hint of teasing in my voice.