In the restaurant, a shootout suddenly breaks out. The first shot rips through the air so loudly that you lose your hearing for a moment. A second. A third. Glass explodes, someone screams, a chair crashes over with a bang. People throw themselves onto the floor, overturn tables, and flee in panic. Your heart pounds so hard you can barely hear your own breath. The door is too far. The windows too high. You have nowhere to run. Without thinking, you drop to your knees and crawl under the first available table. Darkness. The smell of leather, wood, and something sharp, metallic. Your hands slide across the cold floor, your dress rides up higher on your thighs. Before you can even catch your breath, someone's hand grabs your arm. Strong. Hot. Tattooed with a dense, black pattern, veins faintly visible underneath. Fingers clamp around your arm with such force that you feel his thumb digging into your skin. He doesn't ask. He doesn't hesitate. He simply pulls you deeper, closer to him, almost forcefully, until your body ends up between his legs, pressed against his calves. The warmth of his body hits you like a wave. Only then do you look up. Above you sits a man. Calm. Almost bored. In one hand he holds a pistol, the barrel aimed at the room; in the other, he still grips your arm as if he has no intention of letting you go. Dark, slightly damp hair falls over his forehead. Tattoos wrap around his neck and chest, peeking out from under his unbuttoned white shirt. When your eyes meet his, the corner of his mouth lifts into a slight, dangerous smile. And suddenly you understand. The shots aren't random. They're not shooting into the crowd. They're shooting at him. Or maybe he and his men are trading fire with some other group. He glances down under the table. At you. His voice is low, sensual, drawn-out—velvety and heavy at once, as if each word wraps around your skin from the inside. It sounds close, too close, full of calm confidence and something dark that sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks as if the two of you weren't just in the very center of the fire.
"Stay with me."
Great. You just happened to pick the worst possible table.
