Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters Book 3)
Savage Hearts: Chapter 8

The restaurant Declan takes us to is so elegant and upscale, I feel like I should have a sign around my neck apologizing for my attire.

The sign would blame it all on Sloane, of course.

The three of us sit in a corner booth at the back of a large, candle-lit dining room. Spider and the other bodyguards sit at two separate tables nearby.

Every time I glance in Spider’s direction, he’s gazing at me with stern, unwavering focus, like he’s judging my life choices.

That makes two of us.

“So, Riley. Tell me about yourself.”

Lounging against the booth with one arm slung over Sloane’s shoulders, king-of-the-jungle Declan smiles at me. How the man manages to ooze dominance and sexual prowess simply sitting there is one of life’s great mysteries.

Meanwhile, Sloane gazes dreamily up at his chiseled profile with little red hearts in her eyes.

I swear, I never would’ve believed this shit if I wasn’t seeing it for myself.

“Gee, where to start?” I muse, nibbling on a dinner roll.

Okay, nibbling is a lie. I’m gnawing on it like a farm animal. I’m so hungry, I could chew my own arm off. If the waitress doesn’t arrive with our entrées soon, I’m going to barge straight into the kitchen and start threatening people with a meat cleaver.

“I work as a freelance editor, which I adore. Mainly because of how much I love books, but also because I get to work in my pajamas.”

“And avoid all human contact,” Sloane adds, smiling.

“Yes. That’s a major benefit.”

Declan quirks a brow. “Not much of a people person, are you?”

“It’s not that I hate people, I just feel better when they’re not around.”

Sloane laughs. “Barfly.”

“I love that movie. Mickey Rourke was so dope when he was young.”

Sloane makes a face at me. “Don’t say ‘dope.’ It makes you sound so Generation Z.”

“I am Gen Z.”

“Ugh. That explains why you’re so antisocial.”

“At least I’m not a Millennial. You guys are all narcissists.”

“We are not!” she says, indignant.

When I only stare at her with my lips quirked, she laughs again. “Okay. You got me.”

Declan looks interested in the turn in the conversation. “What generation am I?”

Without thinking, I chuckle and say, “Generation Big D.”

He cocks his head, Sloane lifts her brows, and I backpedal as fast as I can. “The D doesn’t stand for dick!”

Sloane drawls, “What does it stand for then, Smalls?”

Cringing, face flaming, I lift my shoulders up to my ears and lie meekly, “Dude?”

“Uh-huh.” She throws back her head and laughs. “Oh, god. If you only knew how right you are!”

Declan looks back and forth between us. “I’m lost.”

Sloane reaches over and squeezes his thigh. “The D stands for daddy, honey.”

He glances at her hand on his thigh then looks at her mouth. His blue eyes grow hot. His smile comes on slow and heated.

And I am so out of here.

I stand abruptly, almost knocking over my water glass. Yanking at the hem of my dress, I say, “Be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Ladies room.”

“Spider.” Declan snaps his fingers. Spider shoots to his feet.

“I think I can pee by myself, thanks.”

Ignoring me, Declan makes a motion with his hand to indicate Spider is to follow wherever I go.

Knowing I don’t have a say in the matter, I sigh and head toward the back of the restaurant, tugging self-consciously at my hem and hoping Spider isn’t following too closely. He’ll probably get an eyeful of one of my pasty butt cheeks.

Gah! Why did I agree to wear this stupid dress?

I burst through the bathroom door and lock myself into a stall. I sit on the toilet with my elbows propped on my thighs and my chin propped in my hands until it seems enough time has passed for Sloane to jerk off Declan under the table. Or whatever it was they were about to do.

Then I go to the sink to wash my hands. Even though I didn’t pee, clean hands are always a good idea.

When I turn the water off and reach for a paper towel, I happen to glance into the mirror above the sinks. I freeze in horror.

A man is directly behind me.

He’s huge.

Frighteningly tall and broad, he stands with his legs spread open and his massive hands hanging by his sides. He’s all in black, including a heavy wool overcoat with the collar turned up against his tattooed neck.

His hair and beard are thick and dark. A small silver hoop earring glints in one earlobe. Beneath lowered brows, his eyes are a startling shade of pale green.

A powerful energy of violence and darkness emanates from him.

It’s like being in a room with a supermassive black hole. I’m about to be devoured and disappear for all eternity.

He’s the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

His intense gaze locked on mine in the mirror, he murmurs, “You don’t need to sell yourself, malyutka.”

His voice is deep, rich, and hypnotic.

So is his scent. He smells like something that lives and hunts in the woods.

“You’re better than that, no matter what he tells you.”

He’s speaking English, but I have no idea what he’s saying. I can’t think. I can’t focus. All I can do is stare at him, seized with terror and fascination, my heart beating like mad. The rest of me is frozen solid.

“Take this.”

Stepping closer, he removes an envelope from an inside pocket of his overcoat. It’s a thick brown rectangle with a rubber band around the middle. He leans over and sets it noiselessly on the countertop beside the sink. He gazes down into my wide, unblinking eyes.

“Don’t go back to him. Leave now. Make yourself a better life.”

He reaches up and gently brushes his knuckles over my cheek. His voice drops even lower.

“I can tell it’s not too late for you. There’s still hope in those pretty eyes.”

Swift and silent as smoke, he turns and vanishes out the door, leaving me stunned and breathless.

I’m a sweaty, shaking, disoriented mess.

What the hell just happened?

After several moments, I gather my last two living brain cells and look at the envelope. Turning it over, I pull off the rubber band, slide my finger under the flap, and stare in disbelief at the stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills looking back at me.

I say to the empty room, “Wait. Wait a second. Wait just a fucking second.”

Thumbing through the stack, I estimate I’m holding about a hundred thousand bucks in my trembling hands.

My brain does a series of complicated gymnastic flips, then presents me with a hilariously impossible scenario: a hot, scary, wealthy stranger just tried to save me from being my future brother-in-law’s prostitute.

I run over the encounter again in my mind. Then again. Then once again for good measure. The only other possibility I can come up with is that Sloane is playing a bad joke on me.

Or she just doesn’t want to lose our bet. Maybe that’s it. Maybe she paid a guy to come in here and screw with my head.

No, wait. It’s all mixed up in my mind. The bet was that I would win if a man thought I was a hooker because of the way I’m dressed.

Wasn’t it?

I don’t know. I can’t think. Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger ran off with my IQ.

Plus, how would she have found someone on such short notice? After we made the bet, I was only out on the patio before we left for like four minutes. Is that enough time for her to arrange this kind of prank?

Well, probably. This is Sloane we’re talking about. And it seems like she has dozens of these big, dangerous guys hanging around.

And she probably carries that much cash in her bra.

But why would she make it so specific? There was no need for Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger to mention Declan. Not that GHDS mentioned him by name, but the implication was there.

Wouldn’t it have made more sense if he simply approached me and said I didn’t need to sell myself, his assumption that I’m a sex worker being based on the way I’m dressed?

And furthermore, why would a total stranger assume a woman is selling herself unless there was evidence? More evidence than a slutty dress and heels?

Plenty of girls my age dress like they’re trying to mortify their fathers, and I’ve never heard of a single man approaching them in the ladies room and telling them they still have hope in their eyes!

In their pretty eyes, specifically.

My breath catches.

Wait…does GHDS think I’m pretty?

I ponder that for several seconds until I throw my hands in the air, irritated by my own stupidity.

“You all right in there, lass?”

I suck in a startled breath. It’s Spider, from outside the ladies room door. He must’ve heard me growling at myself in frustration.

I’m about to answer that I’m fine, but I’m stopped by the realization that if Spider’s standing right outside the door, he would’ve seen GHDS as he left.

And if he saw GHDS…he definitely wouldn’t have just let the guy mosey on past like he was out for a pleasant evening stroll.

I don’t know much about men in the Mob, but I do know that if Declan put Spider on my security patrol and Spider saw that beast come out of the restroom I was in, Spider would’ve lost his mind.

I doubt he would’ve been quiet about it.

Holding the envelope of cash behind my back, I push the door open a few inches and look through.

Spider stands sentry two feet away. I peer cautiously up and down the hallway. Other than Spider, it’s empty.

“Lass? You okay?”

“You already asked me that.”

“I know, but your glasses are all steamy.”

Of course they are. A large, handsome, terrifying man just set my endocrine system on fire. “I’m fine, thanks. Did you see someone come out of here a minute ago?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. He just—”

“He?”

Spider bristles like Wolverine and steps forward, eyes blazing. He whips his hand around under his suit coat to the small of his back, where I suppose a large loaded gun is nesting.

I say quickly, “I meant she! Sorry. Um, she…whoever was last in here…left something on the counter.”

“Oh. Right.”

Like a light switch has been thrown, Spider settles back into his usual amiable, attractive self. He folds his hands in front of his crotch and smiles at me. “You ready to go back to the table, lass?”

The cash in my hand has gained considerable weight since I opened the door. I have no idea what I should do with it.

Leave it on the sink?

Stuff it in my underwear?

Try to replace its owner?

I dismiss all those ideas as quickly as I think of them but am still in a quandary. I don’t want to leave this kind of cash lying around a ladies room, but I can’t keep it, either. And I can’t exactly smuggle it out and devise a plan later on—a single bill would make a bulge under this obscene dress I’m wearing.

And what if it does belong to Sloane?

In that case, I should flush it down the damn toilet.

But I compromise with myself and ask Spider if he’d mind if I wore his suit jacket.

He hesitates a moment, his gaze unreadable.

“Sorry, it’s just that my dress is air-conditioned. Sloane made me wear it. I think I’ve already caught pneumonia.”

When he still hesitates, I understand. “Right. You need your jacket to camouflage all the weapons you’ve got stashed under it.”

“None of us need to hide our weapons.”

“Oh. Does Bermuda have an open carry law or something?”

His expression turns amused. “No, they have strict gun laws here. But who’d dare to challenge us?”

Wow. It must be nice to work for the king of the jungle. From the sound of it, anything goes.

“Here, lass.”

Declan shrugs off his jacket and holds it out, waiting to help me put it on. I step through the door, my hands behind my back, then turn around, moving them to the front as Declan drapes his coat over my shoulders.

It’s warm and smells like him, spice and musk. Must be the testosterone.

Tucking the envelope into a pocket inside the jacket, I turn back and smile at him. “Thank you. Handsome and a gentleman.”

His cheeks turn ruddy. He clears his throat and says gruffly, “You’re welcome. But do me a favor and tell Declan if he asks that it was your idea.”

“It was my idea.”

“Aye.” Embarrassed, he runs a hand over his hair. “I just don’t want him to think…you know…that I…”

I laugh. “Spider, he’s not going to be mad because you let me wear your jacket. It’s a nice thing to do!”

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he shakes his head. “There are protocols, lass. I can’t…” He makes a vague gesture that includes the two of us.

I get what he’s trying to say and am instantly horrified.

“Oh, shit! Oh, my god, you’re not allowed to flirt with me! Not that you would, I’m just saying. You’ll get into trouble if you even look at Sloane’s kid sister sideways. Ugh, no wonder I make you so uncomfortable.”

He stares at me for a beat, then says softly, “That’s not quite the word I’d use to describe it.”

Taken off guard, I blink.

Before I can form a reply, Spider turns and walks away, shoulders stiff. He waits for me at the end of the hallway, acting as if he’s desperate to look anywhere but in my direction.

O…kay.

Wondering if maybe I ate some THC gummies I forgot about, I walk down the hallway, then follow Spider back to the table.

When we arrive, the mood has changed. The tension is tangible. Sloane is pale, Declan’s jaw is as hard as granite, and the bodyguards at the other tables look like they’re about to jump out of their skins.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, sliding into my seat.

Sloane says, “Declan got a call. We need to go.”

“Now? We didn’t eat yet!”

Sloane’s look could melt off my face. I hold up my hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

We all get up and head toward the restaurant’s entrance. Everyone is so uptight, they don’t notice I’m wearing Spider’s suit jacket. Probably a good thing.

As we walk, Spider asks Declan in a low voice, “What’s happened?”

“They found Diego.”

“What do you mean? His head?”

“No. Whoever that body belonged to that the cops found in the landfill, it wasn’t him. They misidentified it. Not sure yet if that was an accident or not.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Aye,” says Declan darkly. “But it gets much more interesting than that, mate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Diego’s still alive.”

Spider’s shock is palpable. He almost trips over his own feet when he hears that piece of news.

Whoever this Diego is, he’s obviously someone important.