Page 36 of Savage Hearts

I sit in bed with the sheets clutched in my fists, breathing like I’m in labor, until finally I regain enough control of my larynx and vocal cords to speak. “What’s that word you keep calling me?”

I know it’s not the most pressing question, but I’m under extreme duress, so I’m giving myself some slack on this one.

“Malyutka.”

He draws it out, enunciating the syllables. Whatever language he’s speaking, it’s masculine, rough, and sexual.

I hate myself for loving it. “What does it mean?”

“Roughly… little one. Baby.”

I stop being terrified long enough to marvel at that. I have a nickname?

Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger is calling mebaby?

I clear my throat, desperate to understand what the hell is happening. “Um… uh…”

“Is the Irishman keeping you prisoner here?”

“Ha! How did you guess?”

Okay, that actually came out in normal words. And with my normal amount of blatant sarcasm. So I must not be as scared as I think I am.

Only I am. Holy shit, I’m scared. I’d make a run for it if I didn’t already know my damn legs were paralyzed by fear.

I’d take one step out of bed and fall flat onto my face and probably knock myself unconscious in the process.

“I can help you.” His voice lowers. “I want to help you.”

There was a slight emphasis on the word “want” that makes my skin break out into goose bumps. I go cold, then hot, then start hyperventilating again.

“I… I…” Frustrated with myself, I clear my throat and start again. “Whoever you are, you should leave. There are like a million armed guards around here.”

“I know. I’ve seen them.”

His tone is tranquil. He couldn’t care less about the armed guards.

Interesting.

We sit in silence until I run through the entire list of intelligent, clearheaded questions a person should ask in this kind of situation. Then I say brightly, “My name’s Riley. What’s yours?”

Someone please shoot me. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery. I’m the dumbest victim of an impending violent crime who ever lived.

Out of the watery darkness comes a sound that sends a cascade of shivers down my spine.

It’s a chuckle, sexy and masculine, rich and deep.

I’d like him to make that sound against the side of my neck. Or maybe the inside of my thigh.

Or maybe I should go ahead and throw myself onto the nearest sharp object and spare the world another second of my incurable stupidity.

I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer my question, so I offer more remarkable proof of my total lack of intelligence by saying, “Your money’s on the dresser.”

Somehow, I made it sound like I’m offering payment to the gigolo who just serviced me sexually.

My cheeks flame with heat. “I mean, I assume that’s why you’re here. To get it back.”

When he doesn’t respond, I add meekly, “Right?”