Kairos - Blood (MxM) | Book 2 | ✅

15.The Wrong Man

This guy... Just how tall is he? The man with the Russian accent seemed even taller than Jack or Donnie by a few inches. 6'4"? 6'5"?

I gave him my lighter and he smiled like a king indulging one of his subjects.

"Thank you," he said before placing a cigarette between his thin, harsh lips and lighting it with a few puffs.

His lithe yet broad-shouldered frame donned a cream-brown long coat. The green scarf really complimented a pair of light gray eyes and his pale skin. Sandy locks sat neatly pulled back on the top of his head, only a couple of strands fell over his widow's peak and onto sharp cheeks. The lower half of his head was close-cropped and the hair there seemed white.

I tried to guess an age, but his fine and few expression wrinkles didn't help much. An aquiline nose made every one of his other features taut and stern. What history book did this noble Russian guy step out of?

"Are you here for funeral?" he asked in that thick accent with a deep 'R' and a swaying strange tone.

His cold eyes fixed on the black bundled up coats surrounding Bill's coffin while the priest read his book.

"I am, but not really," I answered casually.

"This man they bury, was he not a friend?"

'Friend' sounded like a curse word in this guy's accent. I smirked and shook my head.

"Not really."

I was mesmerized by his icy gaze and aristocratic air.

"You did not know him then?"

"Not really."

"Not really — you say that a lot," he observed with perked brows, eying me up and down.

This guy looks and speaks like a Master. Master of... Of what? Of fucking everything. Do people like him actually exist?

My mocking smirk flourished as I indulged in amused musings over this Russian's origins and identity. I wanted to write a character like him into one of my stories.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he asked plainly — as if I was a pestering fly and he was kind enough to speak to me before squashing my useless body into nothingness.

"My lighter. You still have it," I said without much thought.

"You are right. Forgive me." The man handed the lighter back to my red freezing fingers.

Suede gloves protected him against the wind. Fitting.

I crushed the cigarette butt with my cheap shoes and leaned back against the expensive car that wasn't mine.

"Why do you not wear gloves?" the Russian asked taking a step closer to me.

A woody citrus fragrance tantalized my senses.

"No specific reason," I answered a bit too bluntly.

Maybe it was the accent or the lack of contractions, but he felt foreign and dangerous. If I'm rude enough he might take a hint and just leave me be.

"It is a pity. You have delicate hands. Like your beautiful face."

The fuck, delicate? A snake crawled along my spine, freezing me stiff. My brows furrowed and I dug my hands deeper into my coat pockets. Shit.

"Just what every man wants to hear?" I chuckled to make light of his words.

"Some men want to hear that," he said earnestly.