Page 38 of Savage Hearts

Kneeling with one tattooed hand spread open over his massive thigh and the other on my jaw, he stares so hard at me, he can probably see my bones.

“You can make one up if you want. Or I’ll make one up for you, if you prefer. It’s just that I can’t keep calling you Giant HotDangerous Stranger in my head too much longer. It’s a mouthful, you know?”

His thumb sweeps back and forth over my cheekbone so slowly and gently, I’m getting hypnotized.

“Riley.”

Ignoring my request for his name, he tests my name on his tongue instead. He says it again, even more softly than the first time. He blinks, frowning, and shakes his head slightly. I can tell he doesn’t understand what’s happening.

Me, neither.

“Riley Rose,” I say breathlessly, feeling electrocuted. Feeling every beat of my heart and every hot pulse of blood roaring through my veins.

Why am I not screaming for the guards?As soon as I ask myself that question, I know the answer: I don’t want the guards to come.

Gazing at me like he’s witnessing his first sunrise, he lightly sweeps his thumb over my top lip. He whispers gruffly, “You’re made of fine materials, Riley Rose.”

Jesus fucking yellow penguins, this man is unreal.

Sensing he’d tell me anything I wanted to know right now, I insist, “What’s your name?”

When he moistens his lips, I think I’ll pass out. “Malek.”

Malek. Like Alek, only way fucking hotter.

“Why are you in my bedroom, Malek? What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he replies instantly. His eyes tell a very different story.

Our gazes lock. My skin ignites. My heart, head, and loins explode with fire.

A voice comes through the door. “Lass, you all right in there? I thought I heard voices.”

It’s Spider.

Fuck! It’s Spider!

I turn my head to the door and call out, “I’m fine, thanks. Good night!”

When I turn back to look at Malek, he’s gone. The curtains in front of the closed French doors billow slightly, then settle back into tranquility and hang still.

I sit watching them, stunned.

He’s a ghost. Or a vampire. Or an alien who can walk through solid objects.

Or a figment of my overactive imagination, which would make way more sense.

With an edge in his voice that suggests he might force his way in if I don’t comply, Spider says, “Open up, lass.”

I take a moment to compose myself, then throw off the covers and pad barefoot over the carpet to the door. I unlock it, open it, and lean my shoulder on the edge, squinting against the bright hallway light.

Tense and suspicious, he peers past me into the dark room. “Who were you talking to?”

Instead of answering that, I deflect. “Why were you listening at my door? Are you spying on me?”

The tactic works. His cheeks turn ruddy, and he glances away. Sounding flustered, he says, “No, lass. I just… uh… wanted to check on you. Make sure you were safe.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Has something happened?”