Whiskey Sharp--Jagged

by Lauren Dane

  The sweetest reward comes after the longest wait

  Vicktor Orlov took one look at the wary gaze and slow-to-trust personality of the deliciously sexy and fascinating Rachel Dolan and knew he wanted more than just a casual friendship. But as a natural protector, he also knew bossiness and overprotective maneuvering would push her away. He’ll use every tool in his easygoing arsenal to convince her to take a chance on them.

  Rachel’s flourishing new career as a tattoo artist has brought color back into a life previously damaged by violence. She knows she can trust Vic—it’s herself she’s not sure of. She doesn’t want to be caged or controlled, protected so much she has no ability to make her own choices. And damn if the man doesn’t know it.

  When Vic finally drops all pretenses of “just friends” and focuses all his careful affection and irresistible seduction on her, Rachel knows she’s falling hard for the laid-back pretty-boy Russian she’s discovered has a relentlessly steel spine when it comes to her.

  And she can’t resist.

  Also available from Lauren Dane and HQN Books

  The Best Kind of Trouble

  Broken Open

  Back to You

  Whiskey Sharp: Unraveled

  Whiskey Sharp: Jagged

  Whiskey Sharp: Torn

  Also available from Lauren Dane and Carina Press

  Second Chances

  Believe

  Goddess with a Blade series

  Goddess with a Blade

  Blade to the Keep

  Blade on the Hunt

  At Blade’s Edge

  Diablo Lake series

  Diablo Lake: Moonstruck

  Diablo Lake: Protected

  Cascadia Wolves series

  Reluctant Mate

  Pack Enforcer

  Wolves’ Triad

  Wolf Unbound

  Alpha’s Challenge

  Bonded Pair

  Twice Bitten

  de La Vega Cats series

  Trinity

  Revelation

  Beneath the Skin

  Cherchez Wolf Pack series

  Wolf’s Ascension

  Sworn to the Wolf

  Chase Brothers series

  Giving Chase

  Taking Chase

  Chased

  Making Chase

  LAUREN

  DANE

  Whiskey Sharp: Jagged

  This one goes out to all the badasses with an aftermath story. Big or small, you survive. You make it through and serve as an example to the rest of us. Thank you.

  Author Note

  While Pioneer Square and SoDo are two very real neighborhoods in downtown Seattle, I’ve taken some liberties. Added some buildings, renamed a few, as it helped flesh out the characters and their stories. Still, Pioneer Square is every bit the former home to bootleggers and the criminal element partly responsible for the face of the city today.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  EXCERPT FROM WHISKEY SHARP: TORN BY LAUREN DANE

  CHAPTER ONE

  LINES ON THE PAGE. Each sketch, each movement created a world she was responsible for. A world whose rules she made. A world whose rules they obeyed.

  For a control freak like Rachel, it was as good as the talk therapy she’d been in for the last three years. It freed her. Gave her the ability to effect change on multiple levels.

  And she didn’t need to hunt serial killers or carry a gun to do it.

  It was also a hell of a lot safer.

  Sleep often eluded her, but the creative fire that had ignited into fierce existence in the wake of the events that had shattered her entire life four years ago rarely did. So when she couldn’t find rest, she could always find art.

  Her music wasn’t so loud she missed the ping of her phone, indicating a text.

  I’m in my driveway. Your light is on. Are you still awake?

  Her pulse kicked at the sight of his name on her phone’s screen. Vicktor Orlov. Heard the words in his voice in her head. That accent, a sexy Russian lilt though he’d been born in the United States. Growing up in a houseful of Orlovs and various relations with heavy accents had been close enough, she figured.

  And it worked. Like really, really worked. It didn’t hurt that he also happened to be gorgeous. Sinfully sexy. Funny. Super smart. He worked with his hands so he had great forearms. One of her favorite parts of a man.

  Over the years Rachel and Maybe had lived next door to his parents, he’d come to be an acquaintance. And since her sister had gone and fallen in love with his cousin, Rachel and Vic had gone from acquaintances to friends.

  And the door had been opened to something else. Something more. The possibility of what could be hung between them.

  She considered not replying. He wouldn’t know either way. He was messy. She couldn’t keep him in a tidy box marked Friend. Not any longer and certainly not if she went and texted with him at three forty-seven in the morning.

  Couldn’t sleep. Working instead. Why are you up so early? Hot date that went late? Just enjoying stalking my window like a creeper?

  It was a joke, or she wouldn’t have said it. His house sat on the curve of their street, so from his front window and driveway he could see the side of the house Rachel’s bedroom was on.

  I run a bakery. I’m usually up by four thirty most days. Today I switched with my mother so she could accompany Evie to a doctor’s appointment. I start work in about half an hour or so.

  Ah.

  He always smelled really good. Like bread and cake and just a smidge of vanilla. She wanted to take a bite. Or a lick. Something of the sort.

  Vic made her tingly and warm and sometimes he made her want things she didn’t need.

  And yet, she found herself responding because she liked him—more than she should—and around Vic she was less alone. And maybe closer to being a normal person again who did things like have crushes and went out on dates with hot bakers.

  Save me a loaf of black bread. I’ll drop by later this morning to pick it up on my way to work.

  Then she’d be able to get some food and look her fill at him while she did it.

  That’d most definitely give her workday a fine start.

  I’ll save you two and throw in some salmon. But you don’t need to come get it. I’ll be done by eleven. I’ll drop it by your house when I go home.

  A flush washed through her. She’d be alone in the house by then.

  It wasn’t that having him in her house was bad. It was that he was dangerous for her constitution because she wanted to jump on him and ride him like a stallion.

  Which would be a bad idea. Probably.

  Possibly.<
br />
  Not that she planned on avoiding it. The having him in her house part. The riding like a stallion was still in the fantasy stages.

  Okay. Thanks, she typed back.

  It wasn’t like she had no self-control. She could say hello and look at his butt and flirt and it would be fine. She was a grown woman!

  And, since this was just a conversation in her head, she could admit that maybe she wanted something to happen with him. They had chemistry—major chemistry—and she got the feeling, given the way he moved, that he knew his business when it came to a woman’s body.

  She went back to her pad but instead of the drawing, all she could think of was Vic and those shoulders of his. Wide. Not linebacker wide, but solid and strong. Capable. She liked that.

  In fact, she was bummed she’d agreed to let him bring the bread to their house because she realized he probably looked ridiculously hot when at work. She bet it was pornographic just watching him knead bread. She already had watched him in her kitchen doing things and gotten a little swoony.

  Yeah.

  Her phone pinged again.

  How often do you have trouble sleeping?

  That was a very long and complicated subject and one she didn’t want to get into via text, in the middle of some flirting.

  I get most of my best work done after midnight.

  Truth.

  He sent her a selfie. One of his brows was raised and he wore a smirk. All parts south of her hairline went on alert. She’d be keeping that picture of him. Just for reference. Or something.

  He was unf-worthy for sure. He was just so fucking much. Hot hot hot.

  Hm. What’s that face for?

  Other than licking and kissing. Perhaps even a nuzzle of that spectacular beard.

  That’s my I don’t believe you face. As for sleeplessness, I have some tea that might help. I’ve had bouts myself. What time do you leave for work?

  Rachel frowned again and then forced herself to relax. That line between her eyes was getting deeper due to what her sister called glowering. Whatever it was called, it was going to make her look old if she didn’t stop it.

  She’d rather think about how Vic’s waist nipped in, creating some sort of inhuman pizza shape of gorgeousness from his shoulders to his other parts, like his penis.

  His cock was probably commensurate with his overall size. Which meant big. And what sane gal didn’t like that? Well, if she liked dick in the first place—and Rachel most assuredly did.

  Her little sister, Maybe, had been giving more get it, girl messages when it came to Vic over the last weeks.

  Maybe, with all her glitter and snarling punk rock. Her sister was a little bit of the best parts of all sorts of things and she blurted weird stuff all the time.

  It was one of her finest qualities because you always knew where you stood with Maybe. She didn’t play games and she loved and protected Rachel as if it was she who was the oldest, not Rachel.

  Hello? Did you fall asleep? he texted.

  Before she’d gone off on some fantasy about his body, he’d asked her a question, hadn’t he?

  I’m leaving at a quarter to noon so I can catch my bus.

  Rachel liked taking the bus. It forced her out of her comfort zone to be around people in such close quarters. Every time she managed to make it through without freaking out or getting even slightly uncomfortable she began to believe she’d truly be better at some point. And it cost a crapton of money to park in Pioneer Square.

  Some days she drove or rode in with Maybe and Alexsei, who both worked just a block away from the tattoo shop, but that day she’d planned on busing into downtown as her sister and her sister’s boyfriend were headed in earlier than Rachel needed to be there.

  I have to go back downtown this afternoon anyway. I’ll be at your house by eleven thirty. I’ll make you brunch and give you a ride to work after. Turning off my phone now as I’m headed out the door. See you later today.

  Oh! The cheek! Rachel stared at her phone a few moments and then, with a smile, she tossed it to the bed and took up her pen once more.

  * * *

  THERE WAS FROST on the front lawn as Vic pulled away from his house and headed toward the bakery his family had run for the last thirty years. It crouched right at the southern edge of downtown Seattle most locals referred to as SoDo.

  The location meant their business was heavy with commuters and downtown workers at their lunch hours when they wanted to pick up one of the bakery’s runzas for a quick meal. It also meant they were closed by three and on most weekends.

  The bakery was pretty much always busy. A constant stream of customers, punctuated by rushes, meant the place was either full of customers, or all the employees were busily setting up for the next round of things to do.

  As jobs went, it was a good one. Kept him busy. Paid his bills and enabled him to keep a hand in the family business along with his sister and parents. Gave him the space to keep an eye on everyone and make sure they were doing okay. Especially in the wake of his brother’s death when the family had all but fallen apart.

  He pulled into one of the two parking spots that came with the building and unlocked the back door, turning on the lights in the smaller prep kitchen before heading down into the heart of the bakery where the big ovens lived.

  This was a place he knew. A place he’d been part of—and had been part of him—since before he could walk. As much a home as the place he’d slept at night.

  He knew the slight warp on his favorite pastry scraper. The way the lights made the stainless steel worktables gleam. He hung his coat on the second hook, replacing the clean apron his mother had left on her way out the afternoon before.

  First he turned on some music. Phantogram’s “You’re Mine” came on and smiling, he began to make dough.

  He’d done it so many times it was second nature. Muscle memory as he dumped the yeast into the flour. The ancient mixer was still there because despite its age, it worked perfectly.

  As the place began to hum and the dough took shape he allowed himself to think about his exchange with Rachel.

  Want roared through him. He’d had a thing for his parents’ mysterious and broken next-door neighbor for well over a year by that point and over the last few months their friendship had deepened to the point where he’d truly gotten to know her better.

  And now he was pretty sure he was already half in love with her.

  At first he’d thought she was stuck-up. But he’d come to realize a lot of what he’d perceived as standoffishness had to do with anxiety and a bit of fear. The longer she and Maybe had lived in Seattle, the more she’d begun to settle in, the less anxious she appeared to be. And thankfully he saw way less fear in her eyes—especially when she looked at him—over the last year. She was taking her life back, pulling herself from the dark place she’d been. It was like watching a phoenix.

  Just a few days past, Rachel’s father had burst into her home and threatened to institutionalize her under a conservatorship and keep the sisters apart. Their burning resentment of Maybe, and the overly controlling parenting of the oldest, Rachel, had boiled over into what Vic believed was a death blow to the parent-child relationship for both Richard Dolan’s children.

  And as hard as it had been to see Rachel’s heart get broken by her parents, it had been the way she’d stood up for herself and her sister that had been the last sign Vic had needed.

  Rachel was strong. Fierce. Independent and utterly capable. This was a woman he could pursue in earnest without worry. He’d wanted to give her time and space to heal and to grow to trust him.

  In truth, he hadn’t been ready either. Not ready to step into something he knew without a doubt would be serious. But he’d been in her kitchen as her father had been railing about something ridiculous and the desire to protect her had been nearly overwhelming. In that moment everyth
ing had shifted. He hadn’t felt this way—this powerfully—for a woman in a long time.

  He saw her so clearly, saw the beauty of the strength at her core, he knew there’d be no peace for his heart until he kissed her. And more, though that was down the road a ways. Knew too that he was ready to dedicate the time and attention a woman like Rachel and a relationship with her would deserve. She needed spoiling and he was the guy to deliver.

  She called to him. Something inside him stirred every single time he saw her. Her eyes and the shadows there. Her flaws and the way she powered through and did what needed to be done, even when the cost was written all over her face. All of it comprised the whole of her. The whole, fascinating bundle of gorgeous contradiction.

  He’d been thinking about her so hard he didn’t even hear his dad come in until he spoke. “I’m getting too old to be out of my bed on a cold dark morning.”

  An oft-repeated thing from his father, who’d most likely be happily kneading dough right where he stood just then until he was ninety-five.

  “I told you to sleep in today. Nicklaus is coming in soon.” Nicklaus had worked at the bakery for fourteen years and he was Vic’s right-hand man. He normally did the first shift, getting the dough started before the second crew—including Vic—arrived at five. Bread would be in various stages of the process, proofing, baking, second rise, resting and once done, put in wire baskets Vic was sure were older than he was to hang on hooks at the top of the stairs to be brought to the counter.

  His aunt Klara ran the upstairs with his mom and they made up the last shift that started at six thirty. Evie usually came in around six. Her specialty was the sweet dough. Together with their father, they’d make vatrushka with apricots, a particular favorite of their customers, along with cinnamon rolls and the other sweets that they’d sell over the course of the day.

  Every single employee of the Orlov Family Bakery was truly family, including Nicklaus, who was a second cousin. For a long time Vic had appreciated that, but hadn’t understood just how important it was. And then Danil had died and without the support of his extended family Vic was sure they wouldn’t have gotten through it.

  His dad slung on his apron, tying it around his waist with a satisfied grunt. Vic didn’t bother to point out the freshly brewed pot of coffee. His father was old school. He had coffee with cake and black tea with everything else.