Raze (Scarred Souls 1)

Serge turned a deathly shade of white, eyes searching all around us. “Who? Who the fuck attacked a Volkov? I’ll kill him!”

“No!” I hissed and shook Serge’s arm. “That’s what I’m trying to say. Another homeless man came to my defense. Hell, Serge, he ended up killing my attacker. I… I owe him, and he needs money. I want to help him in return for saving me.”

“Fucking hell, Kisa!” Serge groaned. I could hear how pissed he was from his tight accented voice. “Why the hell didn’t you tell your father when you got home?”

“I couldn’t, Serge. Alik would’ve found out. He wouldn’t understand that the man saved me. He would think there was more to it. He’d kill the man who saved my life, out of jealousy. You know he forbids me to speak to men.” I paused and let that hang in the air. “You know this, Serge. You know what he’s like.”

Serge checked that the area was clear. “Let’s go. You have ten minutes.”

I took off in the direction of where the man had been sitting. Turning the corner, I was relieved to see he hadn’t moved. His hood was firmly pulled down and his hand was still wrapped around the Mason jar.

“There,” I whispered to Serge. His eyes followed the direction in which my finger pointed… and he reared back in shock when he laid eyes on the beggar’s large frame.

“That man? Christ, Kisa!” he asked.

Without giving him an answer, I trotted over the street, motioning for Serge to hang back a bit. He did so, reluctantly.

Cautiously approaching the man, I let my heels click on the asphalt so he would hear my approach. I kneeled down before him and, exactly as before, saw his hands tense. It was as if he were expecting to be struck… or he was gearing himself up to fight.

“It’s okay… It’s me, again… from before,” I said and rolled my eyes at how stupid I sounded. It was pathetic.

I was pathetic doing this!

The man didn’t say anything, not that I’d expected him to. So I opened my purse and began pulling out the cash, pushing it into his jar.

I started when I saw his head lift slightly, watching me fill his jar to the brim. In a flash, he reached out and grabbed a tight hold on my hand. I didn’t react, afraid Serge would come running. Feeling flushed at the touch of his rough hand, I slotted the last of the money into the jar and picked up the sound of his heavy breathing.

“It’s all there, everything you need,” I said quietly. Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot rang out in the distance. It made me jump and whip my head around to look at Serge.

“Shit! Stay here!” Serge ordered and took off around the corner to check it out, his Beretta pulled from his jacket and now firmly in his hand.

My attention moved to the man again, whose hand had released mine. He was screwing the top onto the jar whilst rising to his feet. As soon as he was upright, I stood before him and tried to gaze up into his eyes. His head dipped again and I wanted to scream out in frustration.

Tucking the jar under his arm, he backed away. I knew he was about to take off and disappear into the night. But in a moment of desperation, I reached out and grabbed his sweatshirt sleeve, pulling him to a stop. He wrenched his arm back and strode forward, causing me to stumble back in fear. My back slammed against the slick wall and I heard a low, threatening grumble emerge from his mouth, making it clear that I shouldn’t have touched him. For a fleeting moment, I feared he would strike me.

Holding my hands out for protection, his broad chest slammed into my palms, all hard, defined muscles beneath his shirt as he pushed forward, my hands beginning to shake. I could feel his thumping heartbeat against my palm—he was jacked up, fuming on the spot. Every part of me filled with fear, made worse by a street light above us which flickered on and off, illuminating his gritted teeth.

“Wait! I’m sorry,” I said quickly. The man’s body froze. “I… I only wanted to see your face… before you left. I wanted to see the man who saved me.”

The dark hood tilted slowly to the side, and the heavy rise and fall of his chest seemed to increase. He didn’t want me to see his eyes. That only made me more curious. Keeping the jar tucked under his left arm, he stopped pushing against my hands. Taking the chance while I could, I cautiously reached up and torpidly pulled back his hood.

My eyes were trained on his face as it came into view—that strong jaw, that unruly sandy-blond hair, his dark stubbled cheeks, high cheekbones, and…

I waited with bated breath for his dipped head to rise and finally meet my eyes. He did so with painstaking slowness, long, dark lashes downcast, like he was fighting against his instincts, like gravity was keeping his eyes pulled down. Until, with nostrils flaring and his breath blowing hard, he lost the battle to keep his anonymity and his eyelids lifted to reveal the dark irises underneath and his hard gaze suddenly bored into my eyes…

Then everything stopped—time, the ability to breathe… my whole entire world.

Choking on a gasp, my hand flew to my mouth and my legs collapsed beneath me. In a New York minute, my ass hit the hard ground and cold shivers tracked down my spine.

The man’s face was blank as he towered over me, knowing I had been felled by his stare. He was raw, stern, and he was glaring at me like a killer before he rips apart his victim, a predator before he devours his prey. There was no emotion in his expression, no compassion for me now sitting on the sidewalk, no thanks for a generous donation. He was as cold as an arctic winter… but he was a beautiful monster, and he had no idea why I despaired.