Kitten
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
My feet slap against the pavement as I drag air into my burning lungs. I can’t stop running. If I do, they’ll catch me, and I can’t afford to be caught.
I run through the biting cold of the winter night, my breath tearing from my mouth in ragged clouds. The sharp teeth of the wind sink into my face, stinging my cheeks and making my eyes water. I’d recoil from it if the situation were any different.
Around the corner, I don’t think. I don’t even look properly.
There’s a group of guys standing and talking, and I launch myself straight into the arms of the tallest one.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I grab the front of his coat, pull his head down, and kiss him.
He’s shocked at first.
His entire body goes rigid beneath my hands, like he wasn’t expecting a five-foot woman to suddenly throw herself at him and kiss him in the middle of the street.
I kiss him deeper anyway, silently pleading with him to play along.
Then his arm wraps around my waist.
He kisses me back.
Heat surges through me so quickly it steals what little breath I have left. He tastes of mint and smoke, and he smells like sandalwood, something dark and expensive clinging to the cold night air.
He’s so tall I have to rise onto my toes and angle myself toward him, my body straining to meet his. His hand spans nearly the entire curve of my waist, drawing me closer until there isn’t much space left between us.
My lips part, and his tongue slips into my mouth, bold and insistent, exploring with a thrilling possessiveness.
A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it.
For one dizzying second, the world shrinks to this single, consuming point.
One hand grips my waist, pulling me closer, while the other cups my jaw. His thumb traces a heated path along my cheekbone, strangely gentle compared to the commanding way he holds me.
I get lost in the feel of him dominating the kiss, his exploration demanding and intoxicating. My body presses against his, a perfect, desperate fit.
I forget the other guys around us.
I forget why I’m running.
Right now, it’s just me...
Kissing a stranger.
And I’m liking it.
God help me, I’m craving the intense connection.
The thudding footsteps of my attackers finally halt.
We break the kiss.
The guy looks down at me, his head tilting slightly.
His striking blue eyes are unreadable.
Then he looks over my head at the men who were chasing me.
“Do we have a problem, gentlemen?” he asks in a deceptively calm voice.
I bury my face against his chest.
“Don DeLuca, forgive us. She, uh... she insulted our Don at his club where she worked, and she ran.”
“He wanted to grope me,” I whisper into the man’s chest, only loud enough for him to hear.
His hand tightens around my waist.
I inhale deeply, and his expensive cologne washes over me, rich sandalwood and something darker, intoxicating enough to make my already frantic thoughts stumble.
“So let me get this straight.” His voice is a deep rumble that vibrates through his chest beneath my cheek. “You chased my girl because she disrespected your boss?”
“D-Don, you don’t understand—”
Before he can finish his case, something moves.
It’s so fast I barely register it.
The hand holding the back of my neck releases me.
Two gunshots ring out cleanly through the night.
I scream and bury my face against his chest.
“Clean this shit up.”
His voice comes again, impossibly calm.
I tremble like a fucking leaf in this man’s arms.
I’m about to risk a peek, curiosity warring with every survival instinct screaming at me not to look, but his hand returns to the back of my neck, holding me firmly in place.
“I wouldn’t look if I were you, Kitten,” he says in that deep, husky voice.
I can already feel myself spiraling.
One, I’m out of a job because I threw a glass of whisky at my boss’s face after he tried to grope me.
Two, he sent his men after me.
I ran for my life.
And now I’m an accomplice to murder.
Oh my God.
I’m going to jail.
I’m going to jail!
I can’t do jail.
They don’t serve coffee in jail.
Do they serve coffee in jail?
And if they do, it’s not good coffee!
Oh my God, I just witnessed murder.
Not on a show on television.
Not some dramatic scene with actors pretending to die.
Actual bloody murder.
Will I get charged with manslaughter?
Lips press against mine, shutting me up.
I didn’t even realize I was rambling out loud.
The man kisses me again, effectively shutting me the fuck up.
Despite myself, I can’t find the strength to pull back or shove him away.
This isn’t a groping.
This isn’t unwanted hands grabbing at me.
It’s grounding.
A powerful claim that stills the panic racing through my body, giving my frantic mind something else to focus on.
Him.
His mouth.
His hand at the back of my neck.
And the terrifying fact that, somehow, standing in the arms of a stranger with two dead men somewhere behind me feels safer than anywhere I’ve been all night.
When he finally pulls away, the air crackles with unspoken tension. The cold rushes back between us, sharp against the lingering heat of his mouth.
Amusement dances in his startlingly blue eyes as he looks down at me, a predator assessing its catch. The lingering scent of sandalwood and mint from his kiss clings to my senses, a potent, disorienting perfume that seems to follow every breath I take.
“Well, this is a first,” he states, his tone dry as desert sand.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a deep, quiet sound that sends a shiver down my spine, not entirely of fear.
“Women usually know better than to catch the eye of a monster. And you...” He gestures vaguely with his chin towards me. “Just threw yourself at the devil.”
My cheeks flush, a heat that has nothing to do with the biting wind. I try desperately to avoid focusing on the furtive movements behind us, the hushed, efficient sounds of men clearing away the evidence of violence. Shoes scrape against pavement. Low voices murmur in the darkness. Something heavy is dragged across the street.
I force myself to focus on him instead.
Those unnerving blue eyes seem to bore past my defenses, peering into the very core of my soul. They are the color of a frozen ocean, beautiful and dangerous, so cold I almost forget the blood that was spilled only moments ago.
“It was either that,” I whisper, my voice raspy from running and kissing, “or this.”
I attempt to pull away, a futile gesture against the strength of his grip.
His hand on my waist is a vise, unyielding.
“Ah ah ah, Kitten,” he murmurs.
His thumb makes a slow, deliberate circle against my hip, the small movement somehow more unsettling than the strength of his grip. The nickname, given the circumstances, feels both patronizing and strangely intimate.
“We have much to discuss. You just witnessed murder, like you said.”
His voice is a dry baritone, devoid of emotion, a chilling testament to his apparent lack of concern for the brutal spectacle I’ve just endured.
“I didn’t see anything,” I counter, the words feeling flimsy, like trying to build a wall of tissue paper against a hurricane.
“Oh, but you heard.”
He tilts his head slightly, the movement predatory.
A glint of something sharp flickers in his eyes.
“I suppose me saying I won’t tell anyone won’t reassure you, right?” I ask, the question laced with a desperate hope that he might actually believe me.
Amusement dances in those eyes again, a fleeting spark of dark humor.
“You’re a smart girl,” he says dryly, the compliment feeling suspiciously like a threat.
“I know that,” I reply, trying to inject a confidence I don’t feel. “Can you please let me go now?”
“Like I said,” he reiterates, his grip not loosening, “we have much to discuss.”
He pauses.
“If you will?”
He gestures with a subtle inclination of his head towards a sleek, black luxury car parked at the curb, its polished surface gleaming ominously beneath the streetlights.
The vehicle looks impossibly expensive against the grimy pavement, all black glass and flawless lines. The faint glow from the streetlamps slides across its body without finding a single imperfection.
I hesitate.
My gaze flicks from his face to the silent, efficient work happening behind us. The cold is seeping deeper into my bones now, finding every place my adrenaline had kept me warm.
“I don’t suppose you saved me to kill me, no?” I swallow. “Or are you going to sell me? Or human traffic me? Or—oh my God, are you going to turn me into a drug mule and make me—”
“Kitten.”
The single word, spoken in that low, commanding baritone, slices through my panicked rambling.
I shut my mouth.
I look at the car again.
The passenger door opens.
Warm air spills from the interior, carrying the rich scent of leather, polished wood, and something faintly smoky. It smells expensive. Controlled. Nothing like the freezing street outside.
I hesitate for one final second before climbing inside.
The leather seat is warm beneath me, and the door closes with a heavy, muted thud that seems to seal me away from the outside world.
The engine purrs to life.
Through the darkened window, the streetlights smear into golden streaks as the car pulls away from the curb. The men, the blood, the cold pavement, everything I knew ten minutes ago disappears behind us.
I don’t know where we’re going.
I don’t know who this man really is.
I only know that I am sitting inside a car with the devil himself.
Because what’s worse than refusing? It’s the thought of Vincenzo finding me tonight, of him sending more men, more of this brutal violence. So, I will play the games that the Devil is forcing me to play.
