I can, though.
And if I get up from where I’m crouching, they’ll realize that, and I may not walk out of here alive.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have blinked twice, confident in my ability to handle whatever comes my way. But in my current state, I’m no match for an aggressive rat, much less two men who specialize in killing.
Men who are as dangerous as I am.
Quickly, I assess my options. I can stay here and hope no one sees me until the Russians leave, but odds are, Ella will come upon me at any moment.
The other alternative—and the one I’m leaning toward—is to get up and feign total ignorance. After all, it’s entirely possible that I don’t speak Russian well enough to understand what they said. It’s highly likely, in fact, as most Hungarians of my generation learn English in school instead.
Yes, that’s it. I’m just going to play dumb. And to do that, I have to expose myself rather than wait to be exposed.
The surge of adrenaline steadies my hands. Picking up the tray, I rise to my feet, loudly muttering curses in Hungarian. Because that’s what an innocent, ignorant waitress would do if she spilled beer all over her tray and had no idea she was within grabbing distance of two killers.
“Mina, are you okay?” Ella asks, passing by with her own tray of drinks, and I give her a reassuring grin.
“Yep, just clumsy today.” I’m purposefully not looking in the direction of the table, but I can feel the men’s eyes on me as I step behind the column and head back to the bar to swap out the beer bottles.
As I walk, my heart hammers in my chest, and a trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine. I can sense their stares following me, but I keep the smile on my face as I swing behind the bar, throw the bottles in the recycling bin, and start cleaning off the tray.
See? I’m just doing my job. That’s what I’m hoping my casual actions say. I’m an innocent waitress, that’s all.
When my tray is clean, I load it up with more bottles and sashay over to my section, still avoiding looking in the direction of the column. My pulse is much too fast, but the expression on my face is bright and cheerful, as befits someone working for tips.
Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. After a half hour, I risk a glance behind the column as I deliver cocktails to a group of college girls.
Shit.
The two men are still there, and they’re still looking at me.
I quickly look away, but not before I register their appearance. One is huge, both tall and broad, like a linebacker in American football. His head is shaved, and his skull is decorated with tattoos, emphasizing his strong, almost brutish features. He’s dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and a black hoodie over a dark T-shirt. The other one is of the same height but a leaner build, and is wearing a stylish pair of dress slacks with a white button-up shirt, as if he’s just come from a business meeting or an interview. His hair is dark brown, but his eyes are light and striking, though I can’t tell the exact color from this distance.
In general, everything about the leaner man is striking, from the strong, chiseled lines of his darkly handsome face to the power and self-assurance evident in his deceptively indolent pose.
Instinctively, I know he’s the one I need to fear.
He’s the one who’ll decide if I get home alive.
To my shock, my heartbeat jacks up, and a frisson of heat blooms between my legs as I picture myself fighting him. My body clearly didn’t get the memo that danger—something I’ve always been drawn to—is a bad thing for me right now. Even worse, my brain seems to be interpreting the effects of adrenaline as sexual arousal… as attraction to the man who’s likely considering whether he needs to slice my throat or not.
This is not good.
Not good at all.
I can feel his gaze following me as I move about my work. The other man is looking at me too, but it’s the dangerous stranger’s stare I feel most viscerally, as if he’s already touching me. Electricity skates over my skin, and more heat floods my core as I imagine him actually touching me, and not with the sharp edge of his blade.
Fuck. I have no idea why my libido has chosen this moment to come out of its prolonged hibernation, but I don’t like it.
Sex, especially with a Russian killer, is the last thing I need.
Another wave of dizziness hits me, and I almost welcome it this time. My arousal fizzles out, replaced by the faint nausea that often accompanies these episodes of extreme weakness. Dragging in a breath, I focus on staying upright and not dropping the tray I’m carrying. I can’t afford to give in to the urge to rest, to act in any way that would sharpen the Russians’ suspicions. I have to look like an ordinary waitress doing her job, nothing more.
The dizziness passes after a few moments, and I continue with my shift, resisting the temptation to look at the men’s table and see if the dangerous stranger is still watching me.
An hour later, I finally allow myself another glance.
The two men are gone, and a group of girls is sitting there instead, laughing and flipping their long hair over their slim shoulders. They’re as harmless as can be, and the knot of tension inside me eases slightly.
Maybe the Russians believed my innocent act, and I’ll never see them again.
It should be a relief—and it is—but there’s an illogical disappointment mixed in, too. As inappropriate as my attraction to the dangerous stranger was, it was the first time in years I felt something, and feeling anything is better than feeling nothing.
Oh,
