Page 101 of Ruthless Rustanovs

She sat up fully. Just in time to see Cyrus on his knees, a huge shadow looming over him.

Though it was hard to see anything in the dimly lit room, she immediately knew the shadowed figure was The Russian Beast. By his hulking form, by the stillness of his body, by the absolute cold front coming off of him as he stared down at the man sobbing on his knees.

The Beast was pointing something at Cyrus. A gun, she realized with an inner gasp.

“Please! Please! I didn’t know she was yours! I’ll make it right. Whatever you want. I’ll give her to you. Promise! I’ll make it ri—”

An orange spark lit up the room along with the sound of a muffled pop.

Cyrus’s body flew back with the force of the bullet hitting his forehead, then The Russian Beast came to stand over him.

She could see his face clearly now, cast in partial light. Hard as a statue’s as he squeezed three more orange sparks out of his gun. Three more bullets found their way into Cyrus’s chest, making his dead body jerk with the violence of their impact.

The next thing she knew, The Russian Beast was standing in front of her, his huge chest heaving. He was breathing hard. But not with exertion.

No, he looked nothing but angry. Nostrils flaring in and out as he held out his hand and said to her, “Come.”

“Come,” he said to her.

And she found herself taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet. In a daze, the siren followed the beast out to the street and into the back of a cab.

Inside the car, she clung to his large hand with both of hers.

But his face remained unreadable, no emotion to be found about what had just happened or what he had done.

She watched him watch nothing but the passing scenery as the cab took them through the congested streets of Athens, into the historical neighborhood of Plaka.

Above them, the Acropolis was lit up like a shining beacon to tourists everywhere.

A sure sign, even more than the streets’ strictly engineered switch to neoclassical design, that they were now in a neighborhood she couldn’t possibly afford.

That had been one of the first things she’d learned when she’d finally used the passport she’d gotten after graduating from high school.

When she’d finally followed through with her plans to get out of Greenlee County, spurred on by her brother’s tragic death.

Anything too close to a tourist site or with a decent view was out of her price range.

But apparently that wasn’t the case for The Russian Beast. Her mouth dropped open when the cab deposited them outside a hotel that looked like an ancient Greek palace made new.

This definitely wasn’t any kind of student hostel situation.

In fact, the hotel boasted columns so high, she could barely see their tops, even when she bent her head all the way back.

No, this place was definitely out of her price range. But she followed him through the middle set of columns anyway.

Inside she could feel the stares of the other hotel guests, and couldn’t help but feel self-conscious in her skimpy ring girl outfit. She also became keenly aware of her face, which had to be sporting a black eye if the pulsing pain coming off of it was any indication.

However the hotel employees were nothing but deferential to The Russian Beast, inclining their heads as they said, “Kalispéra, Mr. Rustanov.” Good evening, Mr. Rustanov.

So she guessed Rustanov was his last name, not Beast. Though why he’d asked if she knew it, she had no idea.

Was she supposed to know that name? Was he famous?

She didn’t understand. Any of it.

After a short elevator ride, they finally arrived at a door made of a rich, dark wood.

She braced herself, but was still overcome with the opulence of the hotel room, which made her fully understand the term “presidential suite” for the first time.

The room—which was more like a full-on apartment, in her opinion—had a front room fit for a statesman, with luxurious leather furniture, heavy carpets, and a dining table that could easily seat six.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see a balcony with a hot tub and…

Her eyes widened. Was that a private swimming pool? Yes, it was. And in the distance, the Acropolis shone like a nighttime portrait. Forget price range. This place was out of her imagination’s range.

A low growl interrupted her blatant gaping. She looked across the huge room to see an insanely large dog with white and black fur standing outside a closed set of sliding doors like a canine sentry. It stared at her with demonic blue eyes, as if it were trying to decide whether or not to kill her.

“That is Sascha. Siberian husky, wolf mix. Do not try to pet. Not safe.”

The Russian said something to the huge hound in a strange language.

She’d never heard it before, and was almost sure it wasn’t Russian.

Whatever it was, it did the trick, because the growling stopped almost immediately.

And it didn’t start up again when The Russian disappeared through the sliding doors, which apparently led into a bedroom.

Still, Sascha continued to give her the evil eye until The Beast re-emerged a few moments later with a gray t-shirt bunched in his large fist.

“Put this on,” he commanded, thrusting it at her. And to her surprise, he turned around to give her privacy.

She did as instructed, and found that the t-shirt came all the way down to her knees without clinging to anything whatsoever. The night before, he’d all but ripped the ring girl outfit off of her, but tonight it seemed like he could barely look at her and wanted her completely covered.

“I’m done,” she said.

“What do you need to fix your face?” he asked, turning back around.

Her face. She could feel it throbbing with the heat of damage done, and she wasn’t going to forget the way the other hotel guests had stared at her anytime soon. They’d probably thought he was the one who gave it to her.

“I apologize if I embarrassed you down there,” she said, cringing at that thought.

Something ticked in his jaw. “What do you need to fix your face?”

“Um…just some ice and a towel,” she answered, pressing her fingertips into the large bruise. “Nothing feels broken.”

He left the room without another word. Leaving her alone in the suite with a dog she wasn’t supposed to pet.

“Are you really that dangerous?” she asked it.

Sascha stared back at her. Eyes inscrutable.

But she had a feeling about this one, so she sang to it. “Yellow,” by Coldplay. One of the songs she used to sing to Trevor to lull him to sleep. Sascha seemed like a Coldplay fan.

As it turned out, she was right. By the time The Russian came back with the ice, she was sitting with her back to the sliding doors with Sascha’s head in her lap.

However, both she and the dog stood up somewhat guiltily when he came back into the suite.

“Hey,” she said.

He just grunted and pushed the ice bucket into her hands. He pointed at the sliding door, “You can sleep in there. I am going out.”

“Okay, thank you—”

He headed back to the door before the words were even out of her mouth. And this time he slammed it behind him.

So apparently he wasn’t completely unaffected by what had happened that night, she thought in the wake of his departure.

He’d come to the basement, probably looking for another hook up, and had found her in need of saving instead.

Total mood killer. And now not only did he not want a repeat of last night, he was also plainly struggling with the decision to let her stay here in his beyond-grand hotel room. She totally got that.

But she must have had a little more pride left than originally thought, because for a moment she considered leaving. Disappearing back into one of the poorer parts of the city and getting out of his obviously annoyed hair.

But it was four in the morning. All she had in the world now was the waist pack with the little money she’d made working for Cyrus.

And her head was swimming—she could only hope not with a concussion.

Sure there was her pride, but she was also the daughter of a nurse.

She knew she needed to ice her face. And sleep.

Deciding to at least do that for herself, she opened the sliding doors and entered a sophisticated bedroom done up in deep browns and fine white linens.

Another entry in the “this is how you do rich-ass hotel rooms” catalog, and her heart nearly cried out a happy gospel song when she saw what looked like the softest bed ever.

When she woke up, she’d figure out a new plan, she promised herself.

Or just start wandering the streets of Greece again until she found another place to land.

She found a hand towel in the small alcove that sat between the bedroom and the bathroom, and made herself a decent enough ice pack. Then, pressing it to her face, she climbed into the huge bed and let herself sink into it with a sigh. Only to find she couldn’t sleep.

Funny that unlike her reluctant host, she wasn’t remotely bothered that he’d so ruthlessly shot Cyrus and his goons.

But the fact that he wasn’t sleeping beside her, making her feel the things he’d made her feel last night when he’d taken her again and again like he couldn’t get enough… that bothered her.

And though this was the most comfortable bed she’d lain in like, ever, it took her a long while to fall asleep.

Which was why she was shocked to wake up to the sight of The Russian Beast. But not so beast-like anymore.

He was clean-shaven now, and had replaced last night’s black track suit with a pair of gray wool trousers and a black sweater, which made his eyes appear even darker.

And instead of a knot, his long hair fell in a silken, jet-black waterfall past his shoulders.