With narrowed eyes and a casually defiant expression that tells me he’s been fighting authority figures his entire life, he closes the distance between us. He’s just barely taller than Zander, but that won’t last for long. With the rate my boy’s growing, Zander will be dwarfing Jeremy within the year. Still, Jeremy Whelan has a muscular weight to him that Zander is lacking, so when he gets almost close enough to touching me, I jump back. I’m used to Zander getting in my face and me having to put him ass where it belongs, but this is different. There’s a danger that radiates off Jeremy that I don’t expect at his young age.
“Got orders to keep you in the parking lot should you show up. Also got orders to tackle your ass and haul you back out should you find a way into the clubhouse. That shit comes from your old man, so if you don’t like it, talk to him.” He flashes his brilliant dark blue eyes and his large white smile. “Thanks for keeping me company, babe. It was getting boring out here.”
I suck in a haughty breath and turn away from him. He’s going to make a damn good brother. I have no doubt they’ll patch his ass in when the time comes. Wyatt says he talks to Butch, Jeremy’s dad, regularly and the man couldn’t be prouder of his boy. From where I stand, he’s got a lot to be proud of.
We wait like that, in silence, for a damn long time. I don’t even know how much time passes. Only that the sun begins to set and the temperature drops enough to chill me to the bone. I want to ask Jeremy what’s going on and who’s inside. It seems that if the boys welcomed their visitors into the clubhouse, then they have to trust them on some level, so it can’t be Segreti. At least, I’d be damn surprised if it was, but I know better than to bet against these men. Forsaken men pride themselves on being crazy ass fucks who push limits at every turn. There’s no telling what kind of deal they’re cooking up in there. One thing I know for certain though, it’s about New York.
The front door of the clubhouse swings open, the hinges squeaking under protest, and out walks Wyatt with a man— a mafia man— I’ve never seen before. The man at Wyatt’s side is wearing a slick black suit with a white shirt underneath. All perfectly normal and tailored with a dash of personality in the blood red tie at his neck. His ice blue eyes catch mine and a feral smile creeps to his lips. I narrow my eyes in response to the way his eyes rake up and down my body. This man doesn’t look Italian, but there is something uniquely European about the way he carries himself. With sandy brown hair, and defined cheekbones, and a long straight nose above a square jaw and thick neck, he’s attractive alright. Not my type, but attractive. I don’t like my men better groomed than me and save for the beard covering the lower half of his face, he’s as clean cut as a whistle. He’s all business, while still somehow all about pleasure. It unnerves me to my core to have him staring at me the way he is.
“Mr. Strand, introduce me to your club’s woman,” he says with a thick Russian accent. One step forward has Wyatt standing between us. My man’s large hand is splayed out on the man’s chest. He looks down at Wyatt’s hand and waits until he removes his hand. The man reaches up very slowly and smooths out his clothes as if Wyatt had sullied them somehow. He didn’t, but it’s a show of dominance. Intricate tattoos peek out from beneath the arms of his suit. Wyatt doesn’t take the bait, he just clears his throat, getting the man’s attention.
“Come here, baby,” Wyatt says, ushering me over. I move to stand beside him and he tucks me into his side and holds me tight against him. “This is my woman.”
“Dominik Petrov.” The man’s eyes fall back on me appraisingly. His words slide off his tongue in a way that can’t be anything but natural for him. His eyes don’t leave mine when he says, “You’re a lucky man.”
“Amber Strand,” I say with a nod and a steady chin. Wyatt’s fingers dig into my side. He likes the way I sound with his last name.
He’s not the only one.
Pushing my luck, I smile at Dominik and extend a hand to shake his. He takes my hand in his large one. For such a put-together man, his hands are rough and dry, obviously not cared for in the way the rest of him is.
“Tell me what business you have with my man and my club.”
Dominik’s eyes flash excitedly, but he remains silent. I know men like him. They don’t take kindly to women poking into their affairs. My daddy and granddaddy could tell him stories about trying to keep me out of club business. My granddad, Clutch, got his name for always coming in clutch in difficult situations. At least that’s the current party line. My mom used to tell me it was for something entirely different that I didn’t want to know about. Clutch used to tell me he was going to beat the shit out of me for speaking my mind. He never did though. My lax childhood can certainly be to blame for this situation. Women don’t talk like this— at least they don’t do it and get away with it— not in Forsaken and definitely not in the Russian mafia.