14. Chapter 14

14

Dimitri

" W here the fuck are you, D?" Erik's voice crackles through the phone, irritation clear even over the shitty connection.

"At the fight club," I lie, eyes fixed on the dive bar across the street. My car's parked in shadows, windows tinted darker than sin.

I've lost my fucking mind .

Instead of pounding some poor bastard's face in at the fight club, I got Nik to dig up everything on Wren Davis.

Nik doesn't ask questions. It's why he's my best capo . Half an hour later, my phone pings with an encrypted file.

I scan through it, my jaw clenching tighter with each detail. A familiar darkness coils in my gut, threatening to swallow me whole.

Eldest of three. Brother Leo Davis, 14. Sister Emily Davis, 17. Father, John Davis, 56—worthless drunk, in and out of jail. No mother in the picture.

Story I know too fucking well.

Life left her fending for herself and her siblings. Holding everything together while the world shits on them. It's fucking brutal, but she's still standing. I know this hell all too well.

"Bullshit," Erik snaps me out of my thought. "Piggy's asking for you. Seems you made quite an impression."

I snort. "The money made the impression. All I did was not kill the fat fuck."

"Yeah, well, he's singing your praises. Says you're a ‘man of culture'." Erik's voice drips with sarcasm.

"What the fuck does that pig know about culture?" I growl, shifting in my seat. My eyes never leave the bar's entrance.

No wonder her eyes are so fucking empty.

When you're forced to grow up too fast, something inside you dies.

I know that look. I see it in the mirror every day.

Erik sighs. "Look, just get your ass to the Rosewood. The Governor's throwing some fancy shit, and we need to make nice."

"You go play nice. I'm busy."

"Doing what, exactly? Because I know you're not at the fight club."

I ignore him because that's when I see her.

Wren. Fucking hell.

I know. I'm losing my fucking mind.

I've spent the whole goddamn day watching her like I'm auditioning for a job as a professional creep.

First, it was Joe's Diner at the ass-crack of dawn. Watched her serve greasy eggs to hangover victims and truckers with cholesterol problems. Half the fuckers couldn't keep their eyes off her ass as she worked.

She chatted with some middle-aged waitress, both of them laughing. For a second, I felt… relieved? That she had someone looking out for her. Then, I wanted to punch myself in the face. She's nobody to me. Yet, here I am.

She pulls her raven hair up into a ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck.

I want to go to her, run my fingers through that silky hair, taste her skin…

Stay where you are, you fucker! It's bad enough that you're here like a freaking creep!

I sit in my fucking car and watch her serve a million people.

I want to drive off. To stop this nonsense.

But I can't.

No, I won't.

I consider ordering some food when she's on her break. I don't see her for 10 minutes, and I'm about to get out of the car when a whole bus of senior travelers pulls up in front of the diner.

She's back, looking more exhausted than ever. Her brow's furrowed, like something's eating at her. I watch her slip her phone into her back pocket, see her chest rise and fall as she takes a deep breath.

Then she smiles at some grateful old lady, and it does something to my fucking heart.

Chert .

Hour after hour, I sit here. Watch her fake laugh at shitty jokes, refill endless coffees. My fingers itch for a cigarette.

When she finally leaves, I drive slowly, far enough to follow her to some piss-poor excuse for a park. Watch her demolish a hot dog like it's her last meal. Shit, when's the last time she ate a real fucking meal?

But when the sunlight catches her hair, making it shine like chrome… Fuck, she's beautiful.

A group of kids runs by, and for a second, I see her smile. A real smile, not the fake ones she plasters on at the club. I consider taking a picture of her.

Yob tvoyu mat' , what am I doing? This isn't me. I don't give a shit about anyone, let alone some stripper with deep brown eyes and a smile that does funny things to my chest.

But now here we are, at this piss-stained excuse for a bar. Second job of the day. Girl's working herself to the bone.

Blyat , when's the last time she slept?

Not that I give a fuck. I'm just… curious.

Who am I kidding? I'm fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

She's wearing those jeans again, the ones that hug her ass like a second skin. Makes me want to peel them off with my teeth.

A searing hot pressure mounts in my groin, my balls tightening up. Suka , I'm hard again. This woman's going to be the death of me.

I'm desperate for her.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to jump out and knock the teeth out of every mudak staring at her. Their eyes follow her like hungry dogs, and I know exactly what filthy thoughts are running through their pea-sized brains. Yob tvoyu mat' , I want to gouge their eyes out.

"D? You there?" Erik's voice fades into background noise.

Wren approaches a weathered building with a faded sign that reads "The Rusty Nail." It's a dive if I've ever seen one—peeling paint, windows clouded with decades of cigarette smoke. The kind of place where hope goes to die.

She pushes open the door, and I catch a glimpse of the interior. Dim lighting, worn leather booths, the glint of bottles behind the bar. A few regulars stumble in after her, looking like they've been pickling themselves here since the Cold War.

Through the filthy window, I see Wren lean against the bar. Some greasy-haired fuck says something, and she throws her head back, laughing. The movement makes her tits strain against her tight tank top, threatening to spill out.

My cock twitches, and I feel the blood rushing south. Fuck . I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

Blyat. This pisses me off. I can't stand seeing those filthy assholes talking to her, let alone her having to entertain them.

"Dimitri!" Erik's shout snaps me back.

"What now?" I hiss into my phone.

"Tell me where you really are."

"I told you, I'm—" I stop mid-lie because two guys just walked in. Big fuckers, way too clean-cut for this shithole. They're scanning the room like they're looking for something.

Or someone .

"Gotta go," I mutter, hanging up on Erik's protests.

I watch as the two gorillas make their way to the bar. One of them says something to Wren, and I see her stiffen.

My hand's on the door handle before I can think. But I stop myself. My jaw clenches tight.

I'm not her fucking knight in shining armor.

So, I keep myself in the car, fighting the burning urge to tear the door off and get out.

The men walk out, and I light up a cigarette, watching them like a hawk. Russians. I can tell by their build, the way they carry themselves. Who the fuck are they?

Wren bursts out of the bar, face pale as death. She's on her phone, frantically looking around. Scared. It's not a good look on her.

I follow her gaze. The Russians are heading down an alley where a car's parked.

Blyat . She's going after them.

"Don't do it, krasotka ," I mutter. "Don't be fucking stupid."

But, of course, she does. She takes off running, disappearing down the alley.

" Yob tvoyu mat'! " I snarl, slamming my fist against the dashboard.

Before I know it, I'm out of the car, stalking toward the alley. My hand's already on my Glock.

Looks like I'm getting my fight, after all.