“I’m not doing a BMZ kind of article.”
It’s then that he utters the worst two words he possibly can: Garrick Price. “I think I’m going to send him. He’ll be a lot of help to you.”
“I don’t need Garrick.”
“I think you do. I’ll have him on a plane in an hour—”
“I got this,” I say softly, listening to make sure the shower’s still running. “And I’ll tell you something else—Kiro would not take well to Garrick.”
“Garrick gets along with everyone.”
It’s true in a way. Garrick can play anybody. He gets people under a spell, and then he twists the knife. He leaves people in ruins. Could he do it to Kiro?
My heart pounds. Garrick will either spook Kiro or make him his big buddy. It would be bad either way. “I have mojo going that Garrick would fuck up.”
“How much mojo?”
“More than Garrick ever could have.” I’ll say anything to keep him from sending Garrick. “I got this,” I whisper loudly. Maybe too loudly.
“You sure?”
“Who found Savage Adonis? After all these years, who is the badass reporter who found this fucking story? Who? Me, that’s who,” I say, hating myself, but I can’t let Garrick come around. “I am going to deliver the shit out of this story.”
“Prove it.”
“You watch.” I click off. I have to send him something decent. Some good images. I have to keep Garrick out. If I can do that, I stay in control of the story.
Just then Kiro comes out of the bathroom in the sweats, damp hair tousled around the angry planes of his face.
“What’s wrong?”
His fierce attention is on the door. He looks like he wants to bang down the door. “Somebody’s here.”
“What do you mean?”
Just then, a knock sounds.
“Oh.” I stand. “I got it. A friend. Sending stuff.”
He watches me.
I call through the door. “Who’s there?”
“Package from Stormline.”
“A friend.” The car, the money, the phone. I crack the door, sign the paper with the fake name Murray gave me, and thank the guy.
Then I close it and turn. Kiro has put on a shirt.
“Let’s go, let’s stay on the move.” I grab the hoodie I got at the Holiday. “We’re going to a mall.”
Chapter Twenty
Ann
One thing about northern Minnesota, they have a lot of really comprehensive rugged-guy stores. I go for the priciest outdoor hiker-hunter clothes in the biggest mall.
I can feel eyes on us as we walk in. The store is mostly empty, but that’s not the reason. Kiro is the reason. Two shop girls come around. One smiles. One of them discreetly checks his hand. Not married.
They’re checking me out, too. I’m a few years older, and only medium pretty. I’m in an oversized hoodie over nurse scrubs.
Not his girlfriend.
I smile through the queasiness that rolls through me. “We need everything for him. The best, most rugged outdoor stuff you have—layers, something that will work for every season. He’s going to be…” I look up at him and find his eyes glued to me. I’m so used to him as the drugged-up wild boy that it’s hard to get used to him so alert. Sensing everything before I do. “Um…camping and hunting for long stretches of time. He got separated from his old stuff. The best of everything, but portable.” We’re near the shoes area. “I’m thinking winter boots and rugged sandals.”
“I don’t need foot coverings,” he says.
“Yes you do.”
He glowers, and I soak it up. Again I’m back in our motel room, pinned to the wall. I could bask in that glower of his forever. I like all of his looks.
“You need them. Gas station flip-flops fall apart. And they kick you out of places without shoes…” His glower changes, and I get it right then—any place that would kick him out for no shoes isn’t a place he wants to go. He’s going back to the wilderness. I move in close to him. “It would just make me feel better.”
He grunts softly. Annoyed assent. A slight edge of anger.
I nod, wondering distantly when I got to be able to read his grunts and glowers.
The girls keep smiling at him.
They’re zeroing in, and the skin on my back is definitely up. Yeah, Kiro isn’t the only one with instincts on the rampage here.
I can’t have him, I tell myself. No—just no.
“Are you good if I leave and get my own stuff?” I ask.
He gives me a wary look. He doesn’t like this, but he’ll tolerate it for now.
I force myself to go to the women’s department and get a few basics—underwear, jeans, boots, shirt layers. I check the forecast for the next few days. It’ll be warmish, but the nights will be in the 40s.
I make my purchases and change into the new clothes. Then I head back to the men’s department.
I spot him across the showroom floor being attended to by the two women. He looks miserable. Restless.
I don’t have a good view of him, but I think they’ve gotten him to change into a new outfit. One of them puts a hat on his head. He rips it off.
I think to intervene, but he needs proper clothes.
I go to a rack of rain slickers. He’ll want something waterproof, too. I go through them, then I stop and watch across the store with a gnawing pressure in my gut as one of the saleswomen adjusts the buttons on his shirt.
He allows it. Barely.
The two of them back away to get a look.
The air seems to still. The sounds of the store fade. The racks and lights seem to dim. All I can see is Kiro.
Shivers go over me. He’s stunning—fashion runway stunning.
Back when he was tied to a bed in grubby PJs and a crude haircut, he was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Now he’s beyond gorgeous.
I drink him in from behind the rack.
I force myself to pull out my phone and take a few discreet photos, holding the phone casually, like I’m not really taking them. You get good at taking discreet shots when you’re me.
And these I have to get. Wild boy makeover at the clothes store—these are more money shots. His bargaining chips. These photos will satisfy Murray enough to keep people like Garrick away. They get Kiro the fuck-you money that gets the world to leave him alone.
I check the shots. Kiro is madly photogenic. Ironic for a guy who hates to see himself in the mirror.
Another sales clerk brings over sunglasses.
Sunglasses. Fuck. I suck in a breath.
Our eyes meet. It’s as if he heard me suck in that breath.
He accepts the sunglasses and, eyes never leaving mine, he puts them on. He watches me from behind the dark lenses, towering above the clerks like a movie star.
I know two things right then—one, that he hates those sunglasses. And two, he put them on for me. He heard me, and he knew.
My heart pounds as he watches me—for an inappropriately long time. He looks at me openly, taking what he wants, crashing through the rules. Kiro makes the world over in his own way.
He makes the world beautiful.
Another of the women loops a men’s scarf around his neck. They’re dressing him like their own personal runway model. Paul Bunyan meets GQ. Still he doesn’t look away from me.
My heart whooshes in my ears. Kiro.
Again they stand back.
My mouth goes dry. He’s always had a powerful presence, but dressed in these beautiful clothes with his hair unfairly awesome, even mussed from trying on clothes, he feels larger than life. He charges the air. He steals the air.
One of them is talking now, making him decide on colors. He glances down.
I take a few more photos and forward one to my editor. It’s low-res—nothing he can use for much, like tossing out a bit of meat to keep the shark busy. I’ll make Murray pay through the nose for the high-res version, and the money goes to Kiro.
Quickly I pocket it.
>
The sunglasses are off him now. Another clerk comes up with two shirts for him to choose between. He takes them, eyes again boring into mine—invasive, unapologetic.
Angry. Why?
I think about going over, but they’re almost done.
I busy myself at the rack of rain slickers. I hold up a large one. What did Kiro do in the rain all those years out there?
A male clerk comes up and slips a thick card into the frame on the top of the rack that shows the price. Fifty percent off. “Fall outerwear sale starts up today,” he says.
I finger the sleeve of one. “These are probably too heavy. He might need more of a layer than a coat.”
“We have shells along the wall.”
Motion from the corner of my eye. I turn and see Kiro strolling over in his hot new outfit. The jacket is plaid, the insulation is the latest in heat-reflective fabric, but the gaze is pure barbarian. He walks up and stands between me and the male clerk, invading his space.
“Kiro—”
The guy is already backing off. “Let us know if you can’t find something.” He walks off.
I turn to Kiro. “He was just giving me some sales information.”
“That’s not what it was.”
“Of course that’s what it was.”
He glowers at the guy’s back. The atmosphere is full of testosterone and heat. “We need to go,” he grumbles.
“We have to finish this.”
Kiro continues to glower, but this time it’s kind of at everything.
“Please, Kiro. We’ll finish it and go. And you’ll never have to come back here.” The saleswoman who seems most in charge comes and holds a jacket up to Kiro’s back.
“Let’s wrap this up,” I say to her.
“He needs a shell. This is an XXXL. I could go a size larger, but we’d have to order it.”
“We need it now.”
A low rumble. I give him a pleading look. He needs to last a bit longer. We need clothes and outdoors supplies. We can’t be stupid. “We’re almost done.”
He sighs.
I trace the line of his dark gaze. There are a few other shoppers in here now, and I notice that they’re all stealing glances at Kiro. It doesn’t really surprise me; Kiro’s not just hot, he has a brutally commanding personal presence.
They’re really looking at him a lot. It occurs to me they think he’s somebody famous.
Is that what he’s noticing? Is that what he’s grumbling about?
More sunglasses appear.
“No sunglasses,” I say. “He likes the sun in his eyes.” I don’t know how I know; I just know.
Kiro gazes down at me, expression haunted. Something’s wrong—very wrong. What happened?
The youngest woman brings over an oversized plaid shirt for him to try. The black-brown matches his hair, the blue contrasts with the gold of his eyes. “Try this one,” she says.
He fingers the fabric, still with that haunted look.
I hand over the sunglasses. “I’d love if you’d all double-check on some of those large sizes for the jackets and shirts,” I say, but my real meaning is give us a moment. “What is it?” I ask after they’re gone.
“You don’t see it?” he asks.
“No. What?”
“Me. On display as a savage. Dressed as a circus animal.”
I clamp my hand on his arm before he can walk off. “That’s not what they’re thinking.”
“They all know what I am. Everyone here. The way they stare—”
“That’s not why they’re staring at you! They think you’re hot. Gorgeous. Kiro—you’re not a savage.”
His faraway gaze is directed over my head now, not meeting my eyes. He sounds so vulnerable, so angry. They want to kill me because I’m different.
That’s what he thinks. It’s what he really, really thinks. “I swear to you, that’s not what’s happening here.”
He shakes his head.
“You spent time lost in the wilderness. It doesn’t make you savage.”
“So you say.”
“I know that of all the people in the Fancher Institute, you showed me the most humanity.”
His lips twist. He doesn’t believe me. “The professor who caged me up had a theory. He said my primitive brain, my lizard brain, was in the driver’s seat. He thought it was because I’d lived with wolves. He didn’t understand I was born that way.”
“What? No kid is born that way.”
He takes hold of my arm now, eyes boring into mine. “Ask me how it felt to choke him. To feel him die in my hands. Ask me.”
“You need to let go,” I whisper.
His gaze burns into mine, stripping me bare, stripping us bare. “I loved it. I loved to feel the life draining out of him.”
“He kept you in a cage.”
He lowers his voice to a growl. “Ask what I want to do to you.”
Energy pulses between my legs as I try to pull from his grip. His eyes sparkle as he tightens his fingers. I’m back in that hotel room with him pressing me against the wall. My belly feels melty.
His voice rumbles with emotion. “Ask me.”
“Kiro—”
“You can dress me up and cut my hair, but you can never cover up the savage.”
He lets me go and storms toward the men’s dressing room.
I watch him, feeling his pain so acutely…and his isolation.
I can’t let him be alone. I head in after him. He’s not hard to find. There’s only one door closed.
I knock.
He’s grunting. Something rips. Buttons bounce along the floor.
“Let me in.”
“Leave.”
I grip the knob. “I’m coming in.” Still I hesitate. He’s in a dangerous mood. But fuck it, he needs me. I pull the door open.
He’s standing, in a state, giant hands tearing at the buttons. He pauses, gaze unreadable. I’m reminded of the way cats look sometimes, how you can never tell what’s in their minds, like it might be affection or maybe they’re thinking about killing you. He goes back to the buttons.
“Keep that stuff on.”
He eyes the sweats on the floor. Is he thinking about putting those back on? Yes. “The flannel and jeans are practical,” I say.
“I don’t need practical.”
“Do it for me.”
His expression is torn, chest heaving. He’s so goddamn beautiful, it breaks my mind. I’m hyperconscious of his warmth, his power.
“A few supplies and we’re out of here. Keep the new stuff on and let’s go.”
“I’m tired of shopping.”
“Just a little more.”
“You were so beautiful, standing there across the store,” he pants. “I loved looking at you. And then that male—talking to you like that. I wanted to rip his face off, and then fuck you in front of everyone. Hold you in place…fuck you and feel you and have you.” He balls his fists. “I could barely keep myself still.”
I’m unsure what to do with his strange mixture of possessiveness and vulnerability. “Well,” I try, voice wavering, “being that we’re trying not to attract attention, it’s probably a good thing you didn’t go with that plan.”
He just watches me with that amber gaze. “I can scent you, Ann. Your scent is beautiful to me.”
I swallow. Is he scenting arousal?
He closes his eyes. “It’s better than anything I know.”
I’ve never had a man so focused on me. I squeeze my legs together. “Let’s grab the camping stuff and go then, okay?” I go to him and redo a button. My fingers shake. I can barely do it. They have him wearing a black T-shirt under the quilted flannel shirt. “This will be warm and good. You’ll be glad.”
He grabs my hands, electricity in his eyes.
“What?”
His gaze drops to my crotch.
“What?”
“Your scent.”
I swallow. “Um…”
He turns his gaze back up to mine, and I get the
feeling now that he can read my “um’s” as easily as I can read his grunts. He stands, crowding me in the small space.
Heat rolls through me.
He lets me go. His hands are at my jeans now. He’s fumbling with the snaps, the zipper, holding my gaze the way he does.
“Kiro!” I whisper. I try to stop him, but it’s like his hands are carved from steel and stone. Make that warm steel and stone, because they’re on my hips, my ass, pushing my jeans to my ankles.
“Oh my God, Kiro, you can’t just…”
The heat in his eyes matches mine. He grunts. He can. He is. He yanks down my panties and pushes me down onto the dressing room bench.
“Kiro!”
He has me bare from the waist down, and he’s kneeling in front of me. He grips both my wrists with one hand on my arm, pinning them to the wall.
Gently he takes hold of my thigh with the other hand, pressing it wide, spreading me open there in the dressing room. I’m speechless, panting.
He simply holds me open to him there on the dressing room bench.
His body thrums with savage power. I don’t know whether to be frightened or desperately turned on. I’m both, I suppose.
The air is cool, a wild sensation on my sex.
I twist and tremble, caught in his grip. “We’re in a public place. Come on, Kiro. You can’t—”
He tightens his grip in response. He can.
He leans in and puts himself face to face with my pussy, still holding me open. He doesn’t even touch me, he’s just looking. Scenting. I’ve never felt more vulnerable, never more exposed.
My pussy shivers with sensation.
I’m pinned. Helpless. Desperately aroused.
Holding me with that heated gaze, dark hair curling around his cheekbones, he draws his lips even nearer and sucks in a breath.
I gasp, utterly sensitive. It’s as if my folds are scattered with nerve endings, feeling the cool in-rush of air molecules.
I still, frozen with anticipation.
And then he exhales. Breath hot. Stoking my libido. He draws in yet another breath, scenting me.
I melt in his grip. My entire body a well of need. He’s just smelling me, and I’m about to come.
From him smelling me.
“Kiro—we’re in a dressing room. On the run. We can’t…”
Savage Mafia Prince: a Dangerous Royals romance Page 13
