“Gladly,” he muttered, tossing me onto the bed and settling above me. He straddled my thighs, staring down at me with a look I couldn’t quite decipher. With one hand, he reached down to move a strand of flyaway hair from my face; with the other, he began to slowly unbutton the white shirt I’d borrowed.
“I like my clothes on you.” His voice was deep, his eyes dark with lust.
When his hands moved beneath the fabric, I arched up into his touch and felt my eyes droop to half-mast, my gaze still locked on his face.
“I like you in my bed,” he added, slipping the shirt down my arms and casting it quickly aside.
I felt my limbs turn liquid beneath the heat of his gaze, as his eyes roamed my body. A small, distant thought niggled at the back of my mind, nagging that there was something I had to do — something important — before I could lose myself between Bash’s sheets for the next several hours.
Agent Gallagher’s scowling face flashed in my mind — Ah, yes. TheLabyrinthphotos.
“I have to email those pictures to Conor,” I managed to mumble between gasps, as Bash lowered his head to kiss the column of my naked throat.
“He can wait,” Bash muttered. “I can’t.”
I opened my mouth to object, but all that escaped was a breathy moan of pleasure as Bash thrust into me and my mind went blank.
***
I walked intoSwagatthe next day with an immovable grin on my face. My cheeks had begun to ache from my constant smile several blocks ago, but nothing in the world could dampen my spirits today.
“Hey, Mrs. Patel!” I called as the door swung shut behind me.
She waved begrudgingly from her post behind the cash register. Her sari was purple today, covered from the waist down with her usual dull brown crocheted blanket, and her hair was twisted into a high knot at the crown of her head.
“Love that color on you. Purple looks great with your skin tone.” I grinned at her as I walked past the counter and headed for the frozen section, chuckling when I heard her responding grunt of acknowledgement. The doorbell chimed overhead, signaling the arrival of another customer, but I was far too busy contemplating ice cream flavors to look up.
“What do you think, Mrs. Patel? Black cherry or chocolate chip cookie dough?” I called, opening the clear refrigerated door and swirling my index finger through the icy condensation on the glass. “I know I usually get the cookie dough, but today feels like a perfect day to switch things up.”
I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t answer as I made my decision and pulled the carton of black cherry from the shelf— she rarely did. But Iwassurprised to hear a man’s voice close to my ear, to feel the heat of his body press against my side far too intimately for a stranger.
“I would’ve gone with cookie dough, personally,” he whispered, one hand clamping down on my arm in a rough grip. He whipped me around so fast the carton slipped between my fingers and clattered to the ground, rolling down the aisle and coming to a stop beneath a shelving unit. Pressing me close to the fridge, he brought one meaty hand up to cover my mouth before I could scream for help. I struggled, thrashing so hard my vision went blurry, butmanaged to make out one distinct feature on my assailant’s face.
The nose — more mangled than Rocky Balboa’s after a fight, hit one too many times and never set properly. In my peripherals, I saw another man hovering just behind my attacker — big, strong, and silent, waiting to step in if his partner couldn’t control the situation. My veins flooded with panic as I realized that I knew these men.
Smash-Nose and the Neanderthal, come to collect me.
Correction — totryto collect me. I wasn’t going without a fight.
My teeth sank into Smash-Nose’s palm with enough force I knew I’d broken the skin. I tasted the coppery tang of blood on my tongue even as his curse pierced the air.
“Fuck! You little bitch!” he howled, clutching his bleeding hand inside his uninjured fist. I paid him no attention as I turned and ran toward the counter, screaming as I went.
“Help! Mrs. Patel, call the police!”
I heard the Neanderthalclose on my heels, his pounding footsteps chasing me through the store faster than I could run away. I rounded a wire shelf display filled with chips too fast and felt my toe catch on the bottom corner. Sailing into the air, I was perilous to stop the crash. On my way to the ground, I locked eyes with Mrs. Patel for a fraction of a second — not long enough to draw in a breath or brace myself for impact, not long enough to scream for help one last time or plead for intervention.
Just long enough to watch as she — my knight in shining purple sari — threw off that brown, crocheted blanket I’d always thought was terribly ugly, stood on trembling legs, and aimed a sleek, state-of-the-art, semi-automatic pistol at the men behind me. As I hit the ground, a dull ache spreading through my body from my battered knees and elbows, I heard the most beautiful sound in the world.
Mrs. Patel’s faintly accented voice, ringing with authority, along with the telltale click of her Glock as she cocked back the barrel.
“Leave Miss Lux alone! Get out of my store!”
I scrambled to my feet in time to see Smash-Nose and the Neanderthal freeze, eyeing the elderly woman skeptically. I could see them weighing the odds — how serious was this little old lady? Would she really shoot? Did she even knowhowto shoot?
I recognized the change in the Neanderthal’s eyes the moment he decided to risk it — his irises darkened as he edged closer to where I was standing with my body pressed tightly against the counter.
Apparently, Mrs. Patel recognized it too.