Page 83 of Twisted

Near the back of the room, the Russian mafia gang spilled through the door, their heads swiveling as they scanned the main dining hall.

Colleen stepped backward, a cold splash of panic slapping her skin.

Sergey saw the two of them standing along the wall and pointed at them, shouting and gesturing wildly.

She gulped air. “Tristan—”

The bratva men sprinted toward Colleen and Tristan, reaching inside their jackets as they ran.

Tristan glanced back toward them. He gathered Colleen under one arm, protecting her from the spraying water and anything else that might be coming their way.

The cologne he wore on his warm skin seeped through the wet fabric of his dress shirt and vest, spicy cinnamon and wood smoke, like sipping warm apple cider in front of a fire.

His low growl almost emanated from his throat just above her head, “Good girl.”

Colleen almost hopped sideways with the shock of Tristan’s deep voice, at the British intonations in how he said it, at the familiar feel of his body against her side from just a few days before.

Holy shit. No way.

There was no way on God’s green Earth for Tristan King and TwistyTrader of the Devilhouse to be the same—

Gunshots blasted, chipping the wall near her head.

With his enormous form nearly wrapped around her, Tristan half-hurried, half-carried Colleen through the crowd, his other hand stretched in front of him to stiff-arm people out of the way. A fire exit appeared through the spraying water, and he jammed the bar to open it to a short hallway and another door.

Within seconds, they emerged into the darkness outside the restaurant, and Tristan was shouting into his phone in his hand, “Micah, if you’re going to pull a rabbit out of your hat, you’d better do it right now!”

Thunder filled the air around them.

* * *