REM
Lena is talking to the Russian when I get to the bar. He says something and she tips her head back and laughs, her thick braid sliding down her back and her eyes crinkling in delight. If she’s thrown by the vicious scar bisecting the left side of his face, she gives no hint of it.
Maybe she’s faking it. Maybe she’s not. Either way, the sight of her enjoying herself with him makes my trigger finger twitchy.
“Single malt, rocks.” She jumps at my voice, shocked by my arrival at her workplace. The hand she’s using to pour a glass of wine wobbles, but she masks her reaction quickly. Not a single drop spilled.
Steady under pressure.That’s my girl.
The thought stops me dead.
Lena Haywood isn’t my girl. Our engagement is a means to an end. She’s a job at best. At worst, she’s a danger to everything I value in this world, the thing I’d give my life for: my family.
Lena ignores my drink order, giving me afuck offglare as she slides a glass of wine to theArkhangel. I catch a flash of her left hand as she moves behind the bar. The diamond I put therea few hours ago winks back at me. Her look of defiance combined with my mark of possession on her body—it’s a one-two punch that makes my heart pound and my cock hard.
The need to kiss that defiance off her face hits me so hard I can taste it. Hell, the need to taste her mouth for any reason is quickly becoming an obsession. I really could use that stiff drink.
“Excuse me, but I think you’re making our charming bartender uncomfortable with your staring.”
I turn to the source of the comment and find the Russian looking between me and Lena. His expression is neutral but the hardness in his eyes is unmistakable. As is his interest in Lena.
He’s resting one elbow on the bar, the fingers of that hand playing with the wine glass stem as if his only care in the world is his next sip. But theArkhangelhas moved his other hand to his hip and is slowly sliding it under his jacket and behind his back to where his gun is strapped. He stares me dead in the face as he does it, his head tipping in Lena’s direction like a neon fucking arrow.
“Perhaps,” he drawls, accent barely noticeable, “you should take your drink and go. Let me resume my conversation with the lovely Ms. Haywood.”
He knows her name. The hitman is here for Lena, and he wants me to know it. Now he’s just waiting to see what I’m going to do about it.
I prop a hip against the bar, mimicking his casual stance. Staking a claim. “Ah, but I’m still waiting for my drink. Though”—I catch Lena’s attention—“I’m changing my order. Dirty martini, olives.”
The fact that she’s still wearing the ring apparently means nothing; the look Lena gives me is pure disgust. She doesn’t want me here, that much is crystal clear. But I don’t want her vanishing with theArkhangel, so she’s just going to have to deal.
The Russian and I go back to our standoff but there’s nomovement on the other side of the bar. Her lack of obedience in this moment of all fucking moments makes me see red. “Jesus, Lena,” I growl, not breaking eye contact with the man in front of me. “Just give me the fucking drink.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her cross her arms and glare. “Jesus, Rem,” she spits back, taking liberties only Johnny would dare. “Only after you say the magic fucking word.”
I’ve never seen a hitman lose his cool on the job. Then again, if I’m piecing the last twenty-four hours together correctly, I’ve never seen a hitman of theArkhangel’scaliber miss his target either. Apparently, it’s a day of firsts because Lena’s comment cracks the Russian’s composure and he chokes on his wine.
Horrified, Lena apologizes and hands him a napkin. I grab her hand as she pulls it back across the bar and give her a look that I hope is clear enough for her to understand. “Lena, my drink.Please.”
“Fine, whatever.”
“Oh,bratan, I like her.” The asshole is smiling at me.Smiling.
“She’s not yours to like,figlio di puttana.”
“That, my friend, is up for discussion.”
I take a step forward, palm wrapping around the knife concealed at the small of my back. I’m packing as well, but I prefer a blade in close quarters. Far less noisy, far more efficient.
The Russian just rolls his eyes at me, making a show of bringing his concealed hand out into the open and taking another sip of wine. “Relax,bratan. I’ll promise to play nice if you do too.”
I grip the hilt of my knife tighter, ready to tell him to fuck off without using so many words, when Lena places my drink on the bar. No smile, noenjoy, sir, or any of the pleasantries she gifts the other customers.
I curse myself for caring, toss back the foul drink in one gulp and grab the little stick of olives from the empty glass. Four stabbed on a metal pick.
I crush an olive between my teeth. “I think we’ve lost something in the translation. I’m struggling to believe you came here, let me see that ugly mug of yours, just to play nice.”
The Archangel shrugs. “Believe what you want. But I did. And to enjoy the performance, of course.” He flicks his eyes between me and Lena, and I know he’s not talking about the music.