Page 141 of Savage Hearts

The driver opens the door for Mal, who then opens the door for me. We walk into the restaurant with our hands tightly clasped, Mal a step in front. I’m wishing for a paper bag to hyperventilate into as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen floats over to us from behind the hostess stand.

She’s who the word “statuesque” was coined for. A few other choice words, too, including “stunning,” “bombshell,” and “boner inducing.” Everything about her is lush, golden, and perfect, and I suddenly feel like a pet rodent someone dressed up for Halloween.

“Privet,Malek,” she says in a liquid purr, then something else I don’t pay attention to because I’m too busy being blinded by her cleavage. The sparkly gold minidress she’s wearing does a death-defying plunge from her shoulders straight down to her navel. I have no idea how her boobs haven’t already popped out into Mal’s face.

“Masha,” he replies coolly, looking past her into the restaurant. “He’s here?”

A momentary flicker of annoyance mars her perfect features.

I don’t know if it’s because Mal’s not gobbling up all the tasty bait she’s laying or because he spoke in English, but she decides the problem is me and sends me a look that could wither crops.

I smile at her, feeling better already.

“Da.Follow me, please.”

The golden goddess slinks off into the dining room, hips swaying.

“Friend of yours?” I say acidly.

“I haven’t fucked her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not for lack of trying on her part.”

He sends me a glance, arching a brow. “Are you jealous, little bird?”

“Who, me? Of Miss Universe? Nah. She probably doesn’t own a single pair of sweats.”

His lips curve up at the edges.

Then we’re walking into the restaurant, hand in hand. It’s by far the most ostentatious space I’ve ever seen.

Like Masha the hostess, everything is gold and sparkling. The wallpaper, the chandeliers, the table linens, the chairs. The carpeting underfoot is plush, with a bold, gold-and-plum swirly pattern that would outdo any Vegas casino. The ceiling, far overhead, reflects the room from a thousand mirrored panels. Ferns and stands of potted palms adorn the nooks and crevices of the room, and a subtle, expensive scent perfumes the air.

All the elegant dining tables sit empty, with the exception of the three we’re walking toward.

The two large round tables are occupied by men in expensive dark suits. All of them are large, bearded, and middle-aged, though not the kind of soft middle age you see in suburban dads.

These are Vikings. Warriors. The sort of men who know exactly how to wield an axe to sever a head.

Seated behind them in a curved leather booth against the wall is their king.

He’s larger than all the rest of them, hale and broad. His russet beard is shot through with gray. A black wool overcoat with a thick silver fur collar is draped over his shoulders. Tattoos decorate each knuckle of his left hand: stars, flowers, initials, a knife plunged through a skull. His lionlike head is wreathed in smoke from the cigar he’s smoking.

He was handsome once, I can tell. But his face is now craggy and his eyes are as hard as flint, no doubt from all the violence he’s committed.

I must make a meep of fear, because Mal squeezes my hand and murmurs, “Steady.”

When we pass between the first two tables, all the men rise from their chairs. They incline their heads to Mal, who ignores them.

Then we’re standing in front of Pakhan.

He looks at me first, for a long, silent moment. His gaze is powerful and ice-cold. I stand stock-still, trying not to shit my pants.

When his gaze shifts to Mal, I feel like a bunny released from a steel trap. It’s all I can do not to topple sideways, gasping. “Malek,” Pakhan says in a rumbling, accented voice. “You’ve been a busy boy.”

It’s said in English, no doubt so I can understand. But the tone is as neutral as his expression, so I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused.

Sounding undisturbed, Mal replies in Russian. It seems like a greeting, because afterward he inclines his head slightly.