What happens instead is that I open my mouth to unleash a clever, devastating retort on this six-foot-six titan, but all that comes out is…

  “Big.”

  The man pauses. Of all the things he expected me to say, that couldn’t have been in the top hundred.

  Finally, he says, “What?”

  My cheeks flame. “You’re big,” I mumble stupidly. “Like, tall.”

  “And you’re a fucking moron,” he snaps back. He rakes a huge hand through his thick, dark hair. “It’s after sundown, and you just sprinted blindly across the street, a hundred yards from the nearest crosswalk, without even pretending to look to see if anyone was coming to murder you with a car.”

  He’s not, strictly speaking, wrong. But he is being a humongous douche about it. I’ve never had someone talk to me in a way that made me feel this small.

  “Is that what you were doing?” I answer, finally remembering how to patch a subject and a verb together. “Coming to murder me? Honestly, great timing. I won’t even put up a fight.”

  “So you’re reckless and insane,” he mutters. “Fantastic.”

  He pauses and surveys me as if finally seeing me for the first time. I can’t help but blush under his gaze. He’s got this way of looking at me that makes me feel like I’m in one of those bad anxiety dreams where you go to deliver the most important speech of your life and the whole crowd sees you naked. I wish I was wearing something less revealing than tiny pink Spandex running shorts and a black sports bra. Like a parka, maybe. Whatever it takes to conceal as much of me as possible from this man’s sinful eyes.

  “I’m not insane,” I say. “Just casually having the worst day of my life. Well, one of them, at least. There’s a lot to choose from.”

  He remains quiet for a long time. “Someone hit you,” he says at last. His eyes are locked on the cheek where Dad slapped me. I don’t even know how he saw the mark through the darkness and the flush from my running, but he did.

  Something tells me this man doesn’t miss much.

  I cover it up with one hand, while I simultaneously say, “No one hit me; what are you talking about?”

  The man rolls his eyes. “I’d call you a terrible liar, but I’m pretty sure you’re already aware of that.”

  “And I’d call you a terrible driver, but I’m pretty sure you’re already aware of that.”

  “Bold words from Blind Bambi in a sports bra,” he drawls.

  “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be an asshole?” I ask him. “Or were you just flying around the neighborhood, looking to smear someone across your grille like a new hood ornament?”

  “If I was, I wouldn’t have chosen such a mouthy one.”

  I frown. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe your schedule isn’t that busy, if you have time to sit here and banter like the hotshot you so clearly think you are.”

  He pauses, taking his time to drink me in again before answering. That’s how it feels: like he’s drinking me in. Slurping a little bit more of me up with every pass of his eyes, whether I like it or not.

  Spoiler alert: I do.

  “You weren’t kidding. You are having a bad day.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Is it written on my forehead?” I’ve got my fists balled up and planted on my hips, face screwed up in anger. The fact that he’s so obnoxiously calm after his initial bellowing outburst is irritating me.

  I’m in one of those moods where I’m like, My world is shit, so everyone else’s should be, too. It’s not fair for him to be so cool and collected.

  “No,” he murmurs. “It’s written in your eyes.”

  I shiver involuntarily. “Are you a fortune teller or just a run-of-the-mill creep?”

  “Neither. I’m a businessman.”

  That makes me snort. “And your business brings you to the most boring suburb in the country at—” I check my watch—“ten p.m. on a Tuesday?”

  “As a matter of fact, tigrionok, it does.”

  “Sounds like you need a new line of work.” I blink. “Also, what did you just call me?”

  “Tigrionok,” he enunciates in a cool, dark rumble. “It means ‘little tiger cub.’ Because you’ve got your claws out, but I don’t think you have the faintest idea how to use them.”

  I back up a few steps. I’m suddenly, painfully aware of how isolated we are. This stretch of Evanston isn’t exactly the big city. It’s silent and still everywhere I look. The thunder clouds overhead seem to be pressing down on us like a big, flat palm smushing me into the earth.

  “Is that a threat?” It takes everything I’ve got to keep my voice from trembling.

  The man chuckles and spreads his hands wide as if to show me he’s unarmed. “I have better things to do than threaten feisty little girls who don’t know how to look both ways before they cross the street.”

  “You came barreling out of nowhere! This is Evanston, not the Daytona fucking 500.”

  “Excellent reminder. Let me get the fuck out of here then.” He turns to go back to his car, which is still growling and vibrating.

  But just before he gets in, he stops and looks up at me again. It sends goosebumps racing down my spine. “Someone did hit you.” It’s not a question, so I don’t bother denying it. “Did you hit them back?”

  I can’t help but let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Slapping your own dad is pretty unforgivable.”

  “Slapping your own daughter is worse,” he lashes out, so viciously that my breath catches in my throat for a moment. “Any man who does that is a coward.”

  I think about my dad’s frail, trembling hands. The way the skin hangs loose on his neck these days, so gaunt he almost matches Mom.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “Maybe he is.”

  Then, to my everlasting horror, a tear leaks down my cheek.

  I clap my hand over my face almost as soon as I feel it. But, to pile horrors on top of horrors, the man sees it, because of course he does.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, as more tears follow the first. “I don’t know why I—”

  The words die on my tongue.

  Because the man has slammed his door shut.

  Crossed the distance between us.

  And, with one swipe of his rough thumb, wiped the tear off my face.

  I’m looking up at him, speechless and bamboozled and all the synonyms that go with this situation that cannot possibly be real.

  He’s even more beautiful up close. But it’s a harsh kind of beauty. Like a profile carved out of stones that have been around for a long time and seen a lot of hideous people do a lot of hideous things.

  Sharp jawline. Wicked chin. Eyes hard as ice.

  Only his lips are soft, and the image of them tracing up my inner thigh flashes through my mind like a comet before I snuff that shit right out.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt again.

  He rests his thumb on my closed lips. “Don’t apologize. You are not the one who has done something wrong.”

  I sniffle and try to stop the flow of tears. But my cheeks keep getting wet. It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize that that’s because the clouds overhead have opened up.

  I turn my face to the sky and get rewarded for my curiosity with a fat raindrop directly to the eyeball. More rain comes after, plastering my already-sweaty hair to my scalp.

  “Do you have somewhere to be?” the man murmurs. Somehow, his voice slices right through the growing cacophony of the storm.

  I hesitate, then shake my head. “I… I don’t really want to go home, actually.” I know my dad and sister are probably worried about me, and if Mom heard the argument or the slamming doors, then she probably is, too.

  But I just want a minute. Maybe two. Just three calm, quiet, silent minutes for me to pretend that my life isn’t in shambles.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Gee, let me count the ways. My dad is a wreck and my mom is really sick and my sister is just overwhelmed. I feel like I’m the only one holding it all together and I’m doing a worse and worse job of it with every day that passes,” I whisper. The words fall from my lips as easily and heavily as the rain. “They all hate me and I don’t want that, because they’re my family, you know? But part of me is so angry with every single one of them, too. I’m angry with my sister for trying to pretend like everything is just so fucking peachy all the time. I’m angry with my dad for, for… for hitting me, of course, but also for being so paranoid. The world isn’t out to get us, you know? But he acts like it is. He acts like if he doesn’t keep us locked up in this miserable little cage, that some big bad wolf is gonna come swallow us whole. Hell, I’m even angry at my mom for getting sick. How messed up is that? And then, most of all, I’m angry with myself. I should, for once in my life, just do what I want. No one’s ever asked me what that is. I don’t even ask me what that is. I just put my head down and hold onto this crumbling fucking family with my bare hands. And I’m failing at it. I really am. I’m failing so bad and I don’t know how to stop.”

  My voice dies only because I’m doing my damndest not to burst into tears. At the end of this torrent of completely unasked-for word vomit, I risk a glance up. The man’s face is wet and his hair is dripping, just like mine, but you wouldn’t know it from the calmness in his eyes. Those haven’t changed one bit since he got out of that car.

  He doesn’t seem to care that he’s wearing what I would guess is an extremely expensive suit in the middle of a thunderstorm.

  He doesn’t seem to care that he’s holding a strange, blubbering girl he just met who’s telling him way, way too much about her personal life.

  He doesn’t seem to care that none of this, not one bit of it, makes any goddamn sense.

  He just puts that rough, soft, strong, tender thumb under my chin, lifts it up so I’m forced to meet his gaze, and he whispers a few little words that change the course of my life.

  “So tell me then, tigrionok. What do you want?”

  3

  ILARION

  The doors slam shut in unison. Rain thunders on the roof of the car, but in here, it’s dry and warm.

  I kill the engine so that the only sound is the crackling of thunder and the girl’s quiet inhalations.

  “I probably shouldn’t get in cars with strangers,” she remarks suddenly. “Not unless I want to end up on a true crime podcast, and believe me, I do not.”

  “You just told me your whole life story without pausing for breath. We might not be friends, but I don’t think we’re strangers.”

  She laughs for a second before she kills it nervously. “Sorry for that.”

  “I told you once not to apologize. I’m not the kind of man who repeats himself.”

  “What kind of man are you then?” she asks. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the white knight, lay-your-jacket-over-a-puddle-so-the-lady-doesn’t-get-her-feet-wet kind of dude.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “I’m certainly not that, either.”

  I glance out the windshield. The heavens are really letting loose now. It suits my mood. Dark and powerful.

  On my way out of the meeting I just attended, I was ready to break something. Anything. This little tiger cub sprinted in front of my car, and for one wild second, I thought, Maybe I’ll even break her.

  I didn’t, of course. Obviously. I stopped the car and got out to read her the fucking riot act.

  But something in her made me pause.

  In my line of work, I don’t see unvarnished fear in people’s faces that often. They always try to hide it. Try to hide everything, actually, like I don’t see everything there is to see. They think it’ll help them to hold their cards close to the chest.

  But this girl? It didn’t even cross her mind not to wear her heart on her sleeve. It didn’t occur to her that I could use that weakness against her. She was surprised when she started crying, but I wasn’t. I saw the cracks skittering across her surface long before the first tear fell.

  I will admit that things getting carried this far away is somewhat surprising, though. We’re in my car, just the two of us.

  I wonder if she knows how dangerous a place this is.

  “Are you from here?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Russia.”

  “Russia. That explains the accent and the, uh… the…”

  “Tigrionok,” I supply with a subtle smirk. “Yes, that is Russian.”

  “Tee-gree-oh-knock.” She wrinkles her nose as she echoes it.

  I press a mocking hand to my chest. “Awful. You’re butchering my native tongue. I ought to put you back out in the rain for your crimes against my people.”

  Laughing, she slaps me on the arm. “I’m trying my best!” Then, remembering herself, she lets her hand fall back in her lap. That uncertainty crawls over her face.

  Pity. I like it better when she is unbridled. The nickname started as a joke, but it is more on the nose than I realized. Her wildness, her rawness—it speaks to me.

  You live long enough in a world of deceit and lies, and that shit starts to rub off on you. It feels like being cloaked in mud from the moment you open your eyes in the morning until you close them at night. There’s never any clawing it off.

  Her, though? It’s like she’s never even seen the stuff.

  “You said business brought you here. What kind of business do you do?”

  I blink and turn my gaze back on her. “Murder. Drug trafficking. Despicable sins of all kinds—the more profitable, the better.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Hilarious. I bet you’re here all week.”

  “No, actually. Just tonight,” I reply with a straight face. “Someone betrayed me, so I came to warn them what would happen if they did it again. If you ever see me back here, it means that person is dead.”

  A stunned silence swallows up the car. In the half-dark, the girl’s eyes are bright. Her cheek still blooms with that handprint. It makes me angry. Very fucking angry. I meant what I told her—any man who strikes his daughter isn’t fit to live.

  My hands twitch. My father is already dead, luckily for him.

  But if I wasn’t so sure he’s currently burning in hell for what he did to our family, I’d dig him up and kill him again.

  “Ha … ha?” she ventures, uncertain. Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Let’s pretend I know you’re kidding, because otherwise, I’m going to have a nervous meltdown, and I’ve already had enough of those today to last a lifetime.”

  “Sure. Let’s say I’m kidding.”

  “Good.” She sighs with relief and slumps back in her seat. “Can I ask you a question? Is it nice, not giving a shit?”

  My mouth curls up with amusement. “Is that the impression you have of me?”

  “One hundred percent. I’m pretty sure your watch costs more than I could make in a lifetime of swinging from a pole with my tatas out, but you stood out in the rain with me, a complete and total stranger—and a lunatic of a stranger at that—for no good reason.”

  “Don’t forget the shoes. Those are expensive, too.”

  She rolls her eyes again, but she laughs as she does it. That sound does something to me. Zaps a jolt of electricity straight to my cock.

  A jolt I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

  It crosses my mind out of nowhere how long it’s been since I fucked. I didn’t choose celibacy; it just hasn’t occurred to me in months to do anything different. Nothing called to me. No one spoke to me.

  Until her.

  But now, every cell in my body is suddenly screaming bloody murder. It wants to ravage something.

  I have to hold back, though. Ravaging a girl like the one in my passenger seat will ruin one of our lives—but it sure as fuck won’t be mine.

  And I’ve left enough damage in my wake tonight.

  “To answer your question, I don’t know if it’s nice or not. I’ve never been any other way.”

  “Sounds nice to me,” she answers at once. “All I do is give a shit. About my—well, you already heard the whole spiel.” She blushes and glances away from me like I won’t notice her shame.

  “What else would you like to not give a shit about?”

  She scoffs. “You name it, I’d like to not give a shit about it. I just want something that feels like mine, you know? Something I chose because I wanted it, not for any other reason.” She starts to tick things off on her fingers. “I mean, I go to a college I don’t like to take courses I don’t care about. I hate running, but I do it anyway, because I don’t want to be home any more than I have to. It’s just… tiring, that’s all. I’d just like to set it all down for a sec.”

  “So do it.”

  She laughs again, high and mocking. “You say that like it’s easy.”

  “It is. It’s exactly as easy as I’m saying. The way to stop doing something is to just… stop.”

  She tilts her head as she regards me from a new angle. I can’t see anything past the windows; the rain is still relentless. It looks cold and foreboding out there. But in here, the air is suddenly crackling. It’s alive—I’m alive—in a way I haven’t been in a very long time.

  And the chains holding back my lust are growing weaker by the second.

  “When you say it like that,” she croaks, “I almost believe you.”

  I don’t know if she knows it, but she’s leaning in toward me. Closer and closer. With every inhale, she freezes—but with every exhale, she inclines like I’m a black hole sucking her in.

  Fuck, maybe that’s exactly what I am. I’m something she’s never experienced and, after tonight, she’ll never experience me again. It’s best that way.

  For both of us.

  Because nothing good can come of mixing my world with hers. She’s sad about college and Daddy; I have blood on my hands and skeletons in my closet and sins in my past that would make her fucking weep.

  This close encounter is bad enough. Anything more than that would be devastating.

  But here she comes anyway.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  And I’m getting closer, too. She smells like jasmine and sweat and rainwater. Her eyes are bright. Her skin, soft and clear.

  “I'll ask you one more time,” I growl. We’re inches apart now. She sucks in my words and makes them her breath. “What do you want? Fuck all the other people trying to get you to submit to their desires, to live according to their fears, to paint inside the lines they set out for you. What do you want?”