Midnight Purgatory (Bugrov Bratva #1)(3)
It’d be easy to leave her here. My security will come to do what they’ve been trained to do with thieves and would-be criminals. She’d disappear forever. Hell, I might be able to finally raze her house to the ground.
But something stops me. Fuck if I know what that something is. Pity, maybe.
Or maybe it’s the curve of her leg peeking off from beneath the ruined leggings. Maybe it’s how depressing I find her washed-too-many-times, never-been-seen-by-a-lover panties. They tell a story of a life spent shying away from the gaze of men like me, men who dominate everything set in front of them. Maybe it’s that I want to rip those things off and see if her pussy is as sweet and innocent as the rest of her.
“Pity” is the simplest explanation, though.
Rolling my eyes, I stride forward. I put two hands on her hips, lift her carefully away from the protruding nail, and set her down on her feet.
I ought to let her go once the job is done. But my hands stay plastered on her waist for a few seconds longer than they should. My eyes bore into hers. She’s got light blue irises, almost translucent, cotton candy cerulean. Her lips are soft and bow-shaped and a tiny, scared breath passes between them as she looks up at me and swallows.
Too innocent by a fucking mile. I peel my hands from her hips and tuck them in my pockets where they belong. Just touching this girl is almost enough to ruin her. Entertaining my fantasies of shredding that orange cat underwear to pieces would absolutely do the trick.
“I’m not most people,” I murmur.
She recoils and blinks in confusion. “What?”
“You said ‘most people’ would help you down. I’m not most people.”
“Oh. Well, yeah. Duh. You live in a castle, for starters.”
I snort and glance back at my house over my shoulder. Compared to her tiny little hovel, it does have some castle-like qualities. “Envy is unbecoming,” I remark as I turn my gaze back on her.
The girl rolls her eyes. “Ah, the luxuries of being able to shit in a different bathroom every day of the week. Good to know it hasn’t gone to your head.”
“I was an egotistical bastard long before the house.”
She claps two sarcastic hands to her face. “It’s self-aware, too!” Then, gesturing vaguely at me, she adds, “Were you also an egotistical bastard before all this?”
I follow her gesture in confusion. I’m wearing my usual: charcoal Cesare Attolini suit, black Hermes tie, Tom Ford loafers as dark as my hair. The watch on my wrist reflects the rising moon. “Before all of what?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know you’re well-dressed and good-looking.”
“Don’t act like I’d be any different if I wasn’t.”
“My God, do you have a smooth retort for everything? It’s infuriating. I feel like you’re reading off a movie script.”
I shift in place as the breeze wafts her scent to my nose. A sweet, salty sweat and vanilla perfume. My cock stirs. “What happens next in this movie then?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “We just established that you’re the one with the script. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Dinner,” I answer immediately. My response takes even me by surprise. I have to run a hand through my hair and bring myself back under control before I add, “You’re going to come sit at my table and explain to me what the fuck you were doing on my property.”
I watch intently as the girl swallows again. Her throat bobs nervously and she toys with a charm bracelet on her wrist. I don’t think she’s even aware she’s doing it. I glance down to see a link with the letter “Z” embossed in rose gold as she twiddles it back and forth.
“I don’t think so,” she says at last. “It’s nice of you to offer, though.”
That pisses me off. People don’t tell me no. Not anymore. “It wasn’t an offer, narushitel. Let’s go. You’re coming with me.”
I start to turn away, but she stays stubbornly rooted in place. I pivot back in exasperation.
“My mom taught me a long time ago not to just go off into strange places with strange people,” she explains.
“And mine told me to shoot trespassers on sight. Whose mother should we listen to?”
Even in the moonlight, her face goes pale. I feel a twinge of something I don’t feel often: guilt. She looks terrified suddenly and I don’t blame her—my mother did tell me that, actually, and it was my first instinct when my security team informed me that someone had passed over the southwestern gate.
But shooting her would be a waste of a bullet. She’s no killer and she doesn’t know a damn thing about who I am or what kind of organization I lead. She’s just a shy, scared woman—albeit an irritatingly attractive one—and so interrogating her over dinner sounds like punishment enough.
Sighing, I point at her. “You just tore your thigh open on a rusty nail. You’re favoring your other leg, so I know it hurt worse than you’re willing to admit. I also know that there isn’t a fucking chance you have an extra tetanus shot lying next to the half-eaten salad and the moldy loaf of bread that are no doubt rotting in your refrigerator right now. I happen to have medical supplies aplenty. So do yourself a favor: stop being stubborn, come join me for dinner, and I’ll give you the medical care you need. Otherwise, you’re going to wake up with lockjaw, trespassing charges, and an ugly scar that’ll last you the rest of your life.”