7. Bronwyn

7

brONWYN

I shuffled over to the door, my heartbeat quickening. The swish of the mermaid tail was the only sound in the room.

I flipped the sign on the door to Closed and shot the bolt.

I could see his reflection in the glass, a wide-shouldered, shadowy form behind me. What are you doing, Bronny? He’s a freakin’ criminal! It took me three tries to get the key in the lock, my hands were shaking so hard.

I turned around and led the way to the back room. He followed behind and his presence, so close, made me skittish and giddy, each heavy footfall behind me notching my heart rate higher.

In the back room, I rooted in a drawer. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got…” I tried another drawer. “Got it.” I pulled out a bottle of Scotch with only two fingers gone. “I drank a toast with my grandmother when I opened this place. Seems appropriate to get it out again, now that you’ve saved it.” I couldn’t find any glasses, so I grabbed my Throne of Night mug and one slightly chipped one that said I’ll Deal With It After This Chapter. As I put everything on the table, a cold draft from the front of the store hit me. It was late, the heating had been off for a while, and I was still only wearing a couple of cardboard seashells on my top half. I shivered.

He slipped off his jacket and pulled it around my shoulders. It was deliciously warm from his body, with a silky lining that felt amazing next to my bare skin, and it smelled of his cologne, that magical, dark citrus scent. He fussed with it, pulling the lapels so it covered my front. “Better?”

I nodded mutely, warmth blooming in my chest. It was such a small gesture, compared to buying the building but it was so... caring. And sort of old-fashioned, too. Maybe it was because he was Russian, maybe it was because he was a little older than me, but there was something gentlemanly about Radimir. He made the guys that Jen had tried to set me up with feel like boys. And they always wanted to be non-exclusive. I couldn’t imagine Radimir sharing me with anyone.

I pulled out one of the chairs at the tiny table where I ate my lunch. He glanced towards the door as if having second thoughts. Then he looked at me, his eyes burning...and sat.

I poured what I estimated was a shot into each mug: I’m more of a cocktail girl. I raised my mug. “To...the future.”

He clinked mugs with me. “To the future.” In his accent, fu was like fuck made into a soft kiss and ture was like the rasp of his stubble against your cheek. I crushed my thighs together inside my mermaid tail.

We sipped and the burn of the whiskey didn’t do anything to steady my nerves. It just wrapped golden, scorching threads around all my dark fantasies and pulled them tightly into shape. He could just throw me down across this table. Or up against the wall. And then there’s the money. He bought the building: does he think that buys me, too? Was it wrong that the idea of being indebted to a Bratva boss made some secret part of me go weak?

His chair creaked as he leaned forward, and I held my breath. Then, very slowly and deliberately, he put his elbows on the table, his muscles flexing under his shirt, and put his hands together, fingers curling tightly around his bunched fist.

It was like he was holding himself back, so he didn’t...pounce. And the thought that I was making him almost lose control made a weird kind of pride bloom in my chest.

He frowned at me over the top of his hands, saying nothing, just... studying me. I flushed and squirmed, dipping my head.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“You most certainly are.” His voice was still cold, almost angry, as if I was something he didn’t understand but needed to. His hand squeezed his fist, the knuckles white, and he glanced away for a second. “Tell me about your plans for the bookstore,” he ordered. “I want to know that my tenant is going to stay in business.”

And so I told him. Slowly at first, my fingers nervously tracing the rim of my mug. But for someone so scary, he was surprisingly easy to talk to: he actually listened, taking in every word instead of just going through the motions like a lot of men. I told him about how I’d first started up the store, and why, about being raised by Baba and being held back because I didn’t have a degree. His face darkened at that, as if he didn’t like anyone getting in my way. I told him about hosting book groups and the story evenings and the social media promotion I was doing. “But it might not be enough,” I told him. “I’m still losing money each month.”

He nodded, still watching me over the top of his hands. “You’ll find a way.”

I blinked. He sounded so certain.

“You don’t let anything beat you,” he said. “I can tell.”

It might just have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. “Thank you, for what you did,” I said earnestly. “I’d be out of business if it wasn’t for you.”

He looked away and adjusted his tie. “It was a sensible investment,” he muttered.

I stared at him. Was he... embarrassed? “It was kind,” I said firmly.

It was like I’d woken a sleepwalker from a dream. He glared at me, his eyes suddenly so cold that I jumped. What did I say? He knocked back the rest of his Scotch and put the glass down with a barely perceptible clink: even furious, he was so controlled. “Thank you for the drink, Miss Hanford.”

He stood and I scrambled to my feet, panicked. If he left now, like this, I might never see him again. “I told you all about me,” I said. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know who I am.” His voice was ice-hard, like he wanted to push me away. “You know what I do.”

“Is that all there is to you?” I asked quickly, “What they say in the news?”

He tugged his waistcoat straight. “What else would there be?”

“Your family,” I tried. “What are your parents like?”

He drew in his breath and, just for a second, his icy mask fractured. I saw what it hid: deep, soul-scarring pain.

Then the mask refroze. “My parents are dead.”

He took the keys from the table and stalked out. A moment later, I heard the bell on the door jangle as it closed behind him.