Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Loyalty. That’s what these two are good for. Plus muscle. And maybe to make me come as well—that’s a bonus.
My men are silent for the rest of the drive, and I find myself unlocking my phone screen on multiple occasions in the hope Alek has called or sent a text or something.
Thinking of Alek will only be a distraction to tonight’s meeting.
“River?” I ask them, and they nod. “How many men tonight?”
“Ten so far on-site.” I nod as we pull up to a restaurant. Clay opens my door, and I get out and brush my hands down my red dress.
This man wanted my attention.
Now he has it.
But he should’ve been wiser not to flag me down in the city that I all but own.
When I step into the restaurant, the hostess recognizes me immediately and directs me to where I’m meeting the infamous River Bently. I want to roll my eyes at having to come here in the first place.
I’d contemplated walking straight in and placing a gun to his head. But that would be a lot of work to cover up, considering the number of witnesses in the restaurant. I’ll just have to decide what to do during our exchange.
The nervous hostess walks ahead of us and guides us up a few steps to the area for private groups. The second level is cordoned off and only hosts a large table with a lavish spread of dishes on it, and several men seated around it.
I spot him right away, sitting at the head of the table with a glass of amber liquor in his hand as he watches me ascend the stairs. I take in his dark sandy hair, pushed back and styled. He’s dressed much like everyone else in the room.
The hostess is gone before any of the men addresses her.
“Gentlemen, there is a lady present,” the man at the head of the table says.
Pfft. Lady.
Who the fuck does he think he is to be able to do that? My heels click with every step until I stop at the opposite end of the table. Everyone puts down their cutlery, and all their gazes fall on me.
Being looked at by men has never affected me. They either worship me or want to fuck me. Or possibly want to kill me. Whatever, I couldn’t care less. Men don’t intimidate me.
“Anya, if I may call you that, please take a seat and have some food.” He waves to the spot next to him. I pull out the empty chair before me at the opposite end of the table. Everyone exchanges uncertain glances but says nothing. I cross my arms over my chest and lean back as I size him up defiantly.
A server nervously comes over and pours me a glass of wine. I ignore it as I cross my legs and lock eyes with the devil at the end of the table.
The table is silent, and I wait.
I’ve never been great with pleasantries.
“I thought, what better way to make introductions than at my new restaurant? Please, order anything you wish,” he says.
Interesting. He’s settling into my city far too comfortably for my liking. The server stands beside me expectantly and is surprised when I wave him off. He looks at the end of the table, waiting for permission before he turns and leaves.
“To say I’m disappointed your Aleksandr isn’t with you would be an understatement.” Everyone around the table seems to shrink at his voice. “Is it true he has a fear of touching people?” I bite the inside of my cheek at his words. My brother is not his business. “Anya, come on now. We can talk.”
“Do you care to use your manners and introduce yourself?” I glare at him. He smiles and nods, as if it were some kind of signal. But to whom? My men are standing behind me; I know it’s not missed. His gaze slides from me to the man seated next to me. The one I haven’t paid a lick of attention to before I realize now how intently he’s looking at me.
“Sorry, Anya,” the man at the end of the table says as he walks past a few of the men obediently sitting quietly. It dawns on me then. This man is no one important. I realize my blunder when he stops beside the man sitting next to me.
Striking. That’s the first word that comes to mind to describe him. Cold autumn eyes stare back at me, a mixture of blue and hazel, and he has dark hair, almost black in color. He wears a button-up shirt rolled up to his elbows, showing off the tattoos skating up his arms and hands. There’s a ring glinting on his finger in the dim lighting of the room. And he sits there watching me, tapping his fingers contemplatively as he does. The man I thought was River bends to speak to him in a hushed tone before both of them look at me. The one seated next to me puts both of his elbows on the table and leans forward. I stay where I am, waiting for him to speak.