Keep(Romanian Mob Chronicles 1)(7)

It occurred to me then that maybe I should have stayed in the bathroom for as long as I could. But as I’d already proven more times than I could count, I wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box.

The floor was cold against my feet, and I padded softly, not sure of my destination but moving anyway.

I didn’t see the man, so I looked around the large, nearly empty room, praying he wouldn’t jump out at me.

“Water?” he asked.

My gaze flew toward the sound, and I found him leaning against the countertop. His body was still coiled with alertness, but he seemed different, not relaxed but not tense either. But he was still entirely unreadable.

“No, thank you,” I managed to choke out.

He nodded and then walked toward the bed. I kept my gaze on his feet, afraid to look anywhere else.

“Come,” he said.

I didn’t dare disobey him, hoped that maybe if I were good, this wouldn’t hurt so much. That maybe he wouldn’t beat me.

So heart stuttering, I followed, walked until I reached the edge of that huge bed I had tried to avoid.

He inclined his head again, his intention again clear, and on a deep breath, I climbed in, got as close to the wall as I possibly could and waited.

I shrieked low in my throat when he climbed into the bed next to me, but if he had any reaction, he didn’t show it.

He lay down, taking up much of the space, the heat of his body rolling into me, his large form spread out on the bed but still dangerous despite his seemingly relaxed state.

“Cum te cheamă?” he said.

“Uhh…” I started.

“What is your name?” he asked without looking at me.

“Fawn,” I said in a soft whisper. “Fawn Michelle.”

“Imi pare bine, Fawn Michelle. Try not to kill me while I sleep, eh?”

Then he turned off the small lamp next to the bed, and the room was shrouded in darkness.



Fawn

I jolted awake when he moved, and looked around the room disoriented. I hadn’t let myself believe last night had been a dream, but I was surprised I’d managed to fall asleep. I had curled in the farthest corner as tight as I could, determined to watch him all night. I’d held out for a while too, the question of why he’d made me change, take off the wig and makeup providing a little puzzle for me to wonder over. But soon, to my surprise, I’d fallen asleep and stayed that way for hours it seemed.

He stood, more intimidating this morning than he had been last night. But the light did give me a chance to see him better, and what I saw made my already dry throat squeeze tighter. His stature was still imposing, the tattoos had the same menace, but his eyes were softer somehow this morning, icy but not threatening, and the raspy shadow of his beard, a few shades darker than his surprisingly soft-looking brown hair had the duel effect of making him more threatening and more human.

And as reckless as it was crazy, I felt a spark of desire low in my belly. It had been so long since I’d felt such a thing, I hadn’t thought I ever would again, but the tight thrum that sparked inside me was undeniable.

“W-what’s your name?” I asked, my voice breaking from disuse and the dryness of my throat.

Rather than respond, he turned and walked toward the kitchen area of the large room. With efficient, graceful movements, he retrieved a glass, filled it with water and came back to me, glass extended.

“Drink,” he said.

Rising up on my knees, I reached for the glass and then caught the almost imperceptibly quick glance he cast at my legs. Belatedly, I remembered that I was clad in a not nearly long enough T-shirt and that my thighs were completely exposed. I froze, torn between the desire to cover myself and the desire not to upset him.

But he did the most unexpected thing—he looked back into my eyes. It was a simple gesture, hardly notable, but it allayed my fears more than anything else could have. He didn’t leer at me, hadn’t touched me, and that made me want to trust him.

The first drops of cool water against my tongue were refreshing, and I drank eagerly until the water was gone.

“More?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.

I shook my head.

“He’s your husband?” he asked.

I shook my head again. “N-no.”

“Do you want to go back?” he asked.

“No.” I spoke emphatically this time, knowing that no matter what, I couldn’t go back there.

He stood aside, gestured toward the front door. “You are free to go,” he said.

As modestly as I could, I crawled out of the bed and stood, drawing as close to him as I dared. Then I looked toward the door, then back at him, my heart pounding harder than it had before.

He was offering a way out, the thing I had dreamed of, but my feet were rooted to the floor. I looked between him and the door again, sickening dread filling my stomach.