I sit. My hands are cold, so I clasp them together under the table and inhale slowly through my nose.
You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.
A server appears almost instantly. “Good evening, Miss. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yes,” I say, too fast. “A stramo—” My voice catches. “A mawb—”
Jesus Christ.
“Strawberry mojito,” I finish, mortified.
The server doesn’t blink. She smiles politely even though I just made a complete fool out of myself. “Certainly. I’ll be back.”
I nod like that didn’t just happen and stare at the table until she leaves.
Get it together.
People drift in and out of my peripheral vision. Suits. Dresses. Laughter. Every time the door opens, my pulse jumps a little. And then the doors open again, and my gaze lifts instinctively. The first man who walks in looks like pure violence in human form. Short, messy black hair. Dark eyes that seem depthless. His jaw is sharp and menacing, and when his hands come into view, I see tattoos crawling over his knuckles and disappearing beneath his sleeves.
My stomach drops.
Another man follows him inside. Cleaner cut. Tousled black hair. And blue eyes cutting straight through the room. Both are in sleek black suits. I forget how to breathe.
The dark-eyed man notices me first. His gaze locks on, and he doesn’t hesitate. He starts walking toward my table. Every nerve in my body isscreaming. The two of them slide into the booth across from me so casually that it terrifies me. These are men who have likely killed people before. Just like Jude has, I suppose.
They are close enough that I can smell their cologne. Whatever it is, it is definitely expensive. Dark eyes tilts his head, studying my face. “Emma?” he asks.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
He watches me for a beat longer, then gives a small smile. He’s handsome, but intense. “I’m Nico.” He reaches out his hand. Tattooed and scarred.
Yeah, he’s definitely killed people with these hands.
I shake it. My fingers feel too light in his grip. “Hi,” I manage.
Then I turn to the second man. Up close, he’s devastating. Beautiful in a way that doesn’t even seem real. His eyes are so blue that they’re like ice. And they’re absolutely lethal. When he smiles, a single dimple appears in his right cheek—and it somehow makes himmoredangerous, not less.
He also extends his hand. I notice the wedding band instantly, as well as what looks to be scarred, bruised knuckles. “Hello, Emma,” he says smoothly. “I’m Rafe Vaughan.”
Chapter thirteen
JUDE GRAVES
I’m not chained this time. My wrists are free. My ankles, too. No cuffs, chair, or straps. Just concrete beneath my boots and the smell of sweat and blood.
Training.
I don’t get time to think about it before the first hit comes. A fist clips my jaw, sharp and fast, snapping my head to the side. My vision flashes white, but my body reacts before the pain fully registers. I stagger back, plant my foot, and bring my arms up like they drilled into me yesterday. Elbows in. Chin down.
I pivot just in time to avoid a knee aimed at my ribs. My shoulder slams into someone’s chest instead, knocking the airout of him. He stumbles. I follow through on instinct, driving my fist into his gut.
He grunts, amused.
“Again,” another one of them says with a grin, his Russian accent thick as hell.
Another comes at me from the side. I duck too late—his forearm crashes into my back, sending me sprawling. My palms scrape against the concrete as I catch myself. Pain flares familiar enough now that it barely slows me down.
“Don’t stay down,” someone snaps.